


A Place We Don't Have to Feel Unknown

by CamsthiSky



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Nightwing (Comics), Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Bat Family, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Comfort Food, Companionable Snark, Concussions, Dad!Dick, Dick Grayson Gets Wrapped Up in Bruce's Cape, Fluff, Gen, Head Injury, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Kidnapping, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Some light DickBabs, discussions of Adoption, he tries at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 32,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamsthiSky/pseuds/CamsthiSky
Summary: Collection of batfam prompts from tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten tired of trying to post all my prompts as one-shots on ao3 and the like, so for now they're just going to go here.
> 
> Anonymous asked: Stephanie and "whose blood is that?"
> 
> Thanks to the anon who donated!

Stephanie is sitting on the island in Alfred’s kitchen at four in the morning when it happens. The lights flip on, Stephanie’s head snaps up from the ice cream she’s devouring, and Bruce Wayne asks, “Whose blood is that?”

All in all, not a very good way to start her day, Stephanie thinks. Or end it. It  _is_  four in the morning, after all, and Steph hasn’t really gone to sleep yet. She’d skipped patrol since she’d been exhausted and spent—and considering she doesn’t like to half kill herself when she knows she’s at her limit like half the crazies in this house do—and all she’d wanted was some ice cream and some peace and quiet in order to  _think._

Of course, Bruce just had to ruin that for her.

And then Bruce’s question registers with her. She looks down at the front of her shirt. There’s blood staining it–old, she knows. From an old gunshot wound that had bled through bandages and her thin shirt while she’d slept, and Steph hadn’t bothered to try washing it when she was well enough to move. She knows there’s no way it’s coming out now. Not unless Alfred’s involved, at least.

“Mine,” Steph says, shoving another spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. Bruce is still tense, though, so when she swallows, she continues, “Chill. It happened like a bazillion years ago. It was the cleanest shirt I had.”

Bruce’s face does that weird thing where his emotions try to come out or something, but Stephanie knows for a fact that Bruce doesn’t know how to deal with emotions that aren’t anger or discontent, so she isn’t surprised when a frown is the thing to win the Battle of Feelings.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Steph jokes.

“Why are you in my kitchen?” he asks, and then he glances at the clock like he hadn’t already known  _exactly_  what time it was with his freaky Batman powers—and yes. They were definitely powers. Otherwise, there’s no way that Bruce would have known anything about that bruise she’d gotten from the Riddler when Bruce hadn’t even known she’d  _fought_  the Riddler. Because he’d been shot himself. He was freaky that way.

_Anyways._  Bruce glances at the clock. And then his frown grows deeper. Oh goody. More feelings. Or more of the same feeling. At least she’s got him confused. It’s usually on Jason that has the pleasure of baffling the Batman.

“It’s four in the morning,” Bruce says.

“I know.”

“And you’re in my kitchen.”

“Technically it’s more  _Alfred’s_  kitchen than yours,” Steph tells him, stuffing more ice cream in her mouth. It’s Dick’s ice cream, she remembers, but it’s the only thing in the freezer that had looked appealing. She’ll buy him a new tub later, if he wants. “And besides, I thought I was welcome here.”

“You are,” Bruce says, his eyebrows furrowed. Oh look, more emotions. Steph thinks that maybe she should do this more often.

Actually, she thinks back to what led to today’s venture for ice cream and sitting in Bruce Wayne’s—Alfred’s—kitchen, and she doesn’t really want to experience that shitty day running around between college classes that ran into one another, assholes who wouldn’t know respect even if it hit them straight in the face, and Tim who was working himself ragged again. It had been a tiring day, and she’s had enough of those in her life.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks her.

“Ohhh,” Steph says, a smirk playing on her lips. “Was that actual concern from Bruce Wayne I heard?” Bruce shoots her an impressed look, and Steph’s smirk falters, and she lets it fall. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“Anytime, Stephanie,” Bruce says, and then he hesitates, looking a little uncertain. His eyes flick to the ice cream Steph’s still eating. “Just make sure you replace that before Dick finds out. He’s staying in the manor for the week.”

Steph thinks that wasn’t what Bruce had been about to say, but she smiles anyway, giving Bruce a sloppy one-handed salute. “Whatever you say, Boss man.”

Bruce nods, and then he leaves. The lights stay on. Stephanie eats ice cream. It’s odd, she thinks. She still feels exhausted, but she feels a bit more settled than before. Maybe her ex-boyfriend’s and current best friend’s dad deserves a little more credit than Stephanie gives him.

She definitely won’t tell anyone that, but she can think it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Cam I see that prompts are tentatively open I know you've got a lot on right now so no pressure to fill this but I love all your fics about Dick's brothers taking care of him so much! I was wondering if we could see a reverse? How does Dick deal with his little brothers when they're sick?
> 
> anonymous asked: Prompt: Damian was forced to attend school. He subsequently caught chicken pox from a classmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out weirdly fluffy?
> 
> Thank you to Atqhdyn for donating

“Stop coddling me,” Damian snaps, batting at Dick’s hand.

Dick suppresses a smile and backs away a step, making sure to give Damian some breathing room. Damian sulks at him from where he’s curled up on the bed under his covers, and Dick has the urge to pull them up to his little brother’s chin. He doesn’t. The hand probably wouldn’t survive the attempt.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?” Dick asks, looking over Damian over again. “I can stay in here if you want.”

Damian glares at him, but the effect is muted by the shadows under his eyes and the fever flush of his cheeks. He looks absolutely miserable, and above the covers, his hands twitch towards his chest where Dick knows there are red spots that must itch like crazy. They aren’t really on Damian’s face yet, but Dick wonders if that’ll change.

“I told you I don’t need coddling,” Damian tells him, his voice all venom. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Yeah. You are,” Dick agrees, settling on the edge of Damian’s bed. “But that doesn’t mean that you have to. You have people that are willing to look after you now.”

“I don’t need it.” His reply is quick and vicious, but it’s soft. Not quite is argumentative.

Dick sighs, running his fingers through Damian’s sweat-damp hair and out of his face. It speaks volumes that Damian doesn’t smack his hand away again. Only grumbles and turns his head the other way to make sure that he expresses his displeasure.

He’ll have to check in every couple hours, then. Give Damian space, but don’t let him think he’s being abandoned. It’ll be a nice balancing act, but those are the kind of challenges Dick succeeds in.

“Make sure you call me or Alfred if you need anything,” Dick tells him, face serious. Damian doesn’t answer, so Dick grabs a small hand and squeezes it. “I’m serious, Damian. I’ll come check on you soon, but if you need me or Alfred, or hell, even Bruce, you text us, okay?”

Damian doesn’t answer.

Dick shakes the hand. “ _Okay?”_

“Alright,” Damian says, but he doesn’t sound angry.

Dick decides to press his luck and smacks a kiss on his baby brother’s cheek before Damian an push him away. Instead, Dick ends up laughing at Damian’s disgusted expression.

“You’ll get sick, too!” Damian protests. “I will  _not_  be responsible for your irresponsible actions!”

“I’ve already had chickenpox, kiddo,” Dick tells him, still chuckling. “And it isn’t likely I’ll get them again.”

Damian sits up and shoves him off the bed. Dick goes without complaint, a smile still on his face as he steps away.

“Get out of my room, Grayson,” Damian tells him. He hesitates a moment, though, so Dick waits him out, raising an eyebrow. Damian finally nods towards the door, sniffing, and says, “I will call Pennyworth or Father if I have any need.”

“But not me?”

“I will  _not_  be responsible for you falling ill.”

Dick laughs again and backs towards the door. “Fine, fine,” he says. “I’m going. Feel better, Dami.”

And with that he’s out the door and heading towards the kitchen. Of course, there’s no way he isn’t going to poke his head a couple more times today just because Damian forbid him. His little brother’s down with the chickenpox and he’s going to do his best to make Damian feel better as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> akane566 asked: Hej Cam :) Imagine this: normal day in manor, batfamily and others come for dinner. Out of anywhere Jason, Tim and Damian start argument calling each other "Replacement" and "Wannabe"and everything would be fine but Dick have bad day, like super bad sick day which last already week and he beaten till black and blue by some thugs, so he is tired and have cleary enough so he shout "shut up, you all my replacement!" and everybody just *freeze*?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t exactly what was asked for, because I don’t think that Dick would outright call any of his brothers replacement. But here’s something that plays on it, a little.
> 
> Thanks to Taylor for donating!

“Get out of my face, brat.”

“Make me.”

“I honestly could if I wanted to. Don’t try me.”

“I will eviscerate you.”

“And get yelled at by daddy dearest? I don’t think you will.”

Today of all days, Dick thinks bitterly. It has to be  _today_  that all of his brothers have decided to argue, argue,  _argue._  Well—it’s more like bickering than arguing, and usually that would be fine, but Dick’s had a hell of a day. Hell of a  _week,_ and he’s only at the manor because he’d passed out on patrol with Bruce and got taken home like a goddamn  _child._

Just this once, though, he hadn’t had it in him to argue with Bruce, and he’d accepted the house-arrest order without complaint.

Well. Okay, there had been a little complaint, but it hadn’t spun into a giant argument about independence and being able to take care of himself like it would have a couple years ago, sick or not.

“And why does the Replacement look like he hasn’t slept in seven years?” Jason asks, interrupting Damian’s long string of threats.

Tim raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Because I haven’t?”

“I’m taking this—”

“Give it back, Jason!” Tim says, hurriedly rising from the couch in order to jump for the stolen tablet Jason’s holding up in the air. Honestly, Tim could probably just tackle Jason for it (and he’d probably win depending on how much he wants it back), but he looks too exhausted to try.

“Not until you get some goddamn rest!”

Damian snorts. “Drake has two more tablets in his bedroom.”

“Shut up, Damian. I want this one,” Tim scowls, still grabbing for Jason’s hands. “And I know for a fact that someone  _snuck out_  last night, so I wouldn’t even be talking right now.”

“I did not  _sneak out_. I was–”

“Blah, blah, blah. I don’t care,” Jason cuts in, shoving Tim back onto the couch. “Replacement, get some sleep before you pass out. I don’t want to have to drag your ass back here because you passed out from exhaustion.”

“Wow,” Tim says, his eyes wide with fake surprise. “It almost sounds like you care.”

Jason barks a laugh. “Respect your elders, kid.”

“Fuck you.”

Damian scoffs. “You’re such a child, Drake.”

“You’re like ten,” Tim argues.

“I’m thirteen!”

“You’re a child until you’re eighteen, according to the law,” Tim says.

“I am  _Robin,”_  Damian grits out. “I refused to be judge by a technicality of that sort.”

Jason snorts. “We’ve all been Robin, kid. Doesn’t make you special.”

“I am the  _superior_ Robin,” Damian says. “I could kill all of you in my sleep.”

“So could everyone in this room,” Tim tells him, his gaze on Damian, even as he stands up and grabs at Jason again. Jason curses, trying to peel Tim off of him. There’s a few punches and a lot of hair pulling involved. Dick doesn’t think he wants to get involved. “Jason, give it  _back!”_

“Go the hell sleep, and I will!”

There’s a grunt of pain from Jason, and then Tim’s being grabbed and thrown backwards. He lands on the cushions with a sound of surprise, eyes wide while Damian laughs. And of course, that’s when Tim looks to Dick, who is resting on the other couch, staring at his brothers as they argue.

He kind of wishes he had the strength to get up and leave the room, because he doesn’t like the way Tim’s staring at him. His head hurts too much to deal with this right now, and if Tim’s going to do what Dick  _thinks_  he will—

“Dick!” Tim says, gesturing to Jason. “Help me with this!”

—Dick’s not going to be able to stay out of it any longer.

Dick heaves a sigh. “Jason, give Tim his tablet back.”

“Hell no,” Jason says. “Alfred asked me to make the Replacement go to sleep, and I don’t mess with Alfred.”

“Then figure something else out,” Dick says, irritably. “And leave me out of it.”

There’s a cacophony of noise to that statement, and Dick has to close his eyes against the severe pounding of his head coupled with his brothers’ voices. Tim’s yelling and Jason’s yelling and Damian’s joined in with a couple of threats here and there, and then there’s that word being thrown around again.  _Replacement._  And Dick  _honestly_  can’t take it anymore.

He snaps.

“Shut  _up!”_  Dick yells, sitting up all the way to glare at the others in the room.

All three shut their mouths in shock. The room goes quiet. Dick pushes himself to his feet, barely keeping himself steady. He feels like he’s just gone twelve rounds with Batman. Not Bruce, but the actual goddamn  _Batman_ , and he’s had it.

Dick looks at Jason. “Figure this out without me. I have the worst headache of my life, and I’m going to sleep. Come get me if you need me, but,” he looks at each of his brothers in turn, “I better be your only option.”

Damian opens his mouth to speak. “I—”

“Figure. It. Out,” Dick tells him. And then he’s stumbling out of the room, his chest tight.

He’s not good at yelling at his brothers. He hates the feeling that comes every time he loses his temper. But that word being thrown around—

Usually he wouldn’t care. It’s been too long for him to be upset over, the fact that he’s not Robin anymore. That Jason was Robin, and then Tim, and now Damian. He has Nightwing now, and he doesn’t necessarily want his old name back. But sometimes on days like today—where his head hurts and he feels so useless, just like he had back then when he’d made a mistake, and sometimes like he stills does. Especially when he’s dragged home for something as stupid as an illness making him pass out on patrol—his brothers grate on his nerves. They act like they have no idea what it means to have the name Robin.

Dick’s crying by the time he gets to Bruce’s study, and he really doesn’t understand why. He pushes the door open and leans on the doorjamb. Bruce looks up at the noise, and he’s rising to his feet the moment he sees the tears on Dick’s cheeks.

“Dick?” Bruce says, and he walks forward slowly. He looks like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Dick doesn’t move. Not until Bruce is in front of him and gently pulling him into a tight embrace. Dick buries his head in Bruce’s chest.

They stand there for a good two or three minutes. Bruce, holding him, and Dick, trying to sob out his feelings into his dad’s shirt.

Finally, because Bruce will never ask, Dick pulls back a little and says, “I yelled at them.”

“The boys?” Bruce asks, leading them both to the little sofa in the study. He sits down first and pulls Dick to curl up next to him. Dick goes willingly, relaxing under Bruce’s fingers stroking up and down his arm. “Were they fighting?”

Dick shrugs. “No more than usual. But I had a headache, and I was already down there sleeping when they came in and started arguing. And they kept—”

Dick cuts himself off, and Bruce doesn’t push. They sit there, the two of them for a long time. The room is quiet, cut off from any arguing, and whatever ill will Dick had been feeling towards Bruce from yesterday has seemed to vanish in midair. He’s just glad that Bruce is here.

“I’m supposed to be the big brother,” Dick says after a while. “I’m supposed to love them and care for them, and play pranks on them, and hug them and give them advice when they need it. I’m supposed to be yelling at them when I’m angry.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t regularly,” Bruce says. “But you’re allowed to not be perfect sometimes, Dick. You try, and I think that’s enough.”

“Sometimes I don’t think they want me to,” Dick admits, thinking about all the hugs that have been rejected. And then he thinks of Tim’s pleading eyes on the other couch as he waited for Dick to fix his problems. “But other times I think that’s all they want from me.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that, and Dick thinks that maybe he doesn’t know  _what_  to say. That’s okay, though, because Bruce squeezes him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. It’s enough to let Dick relax into Bruce’s hold completely, and eventually fall asleep.

Nothing’s solved. He’ll have to figure these feelings out later, when he’s more equipped to deal with them. But for now, Dick’s tired, and he has a headache, and he’s sick, and he just wants to sleep.

So he does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey asked: So if you are still accepting prompts, maybe you could write something, maybe a moment when lil Dick Grayson feel safe or at home with or loved by Bruce? I don't care if it's angsty as long as there is some comfort :) See I just read a fic where Dick had been kidnapped by a villain and basically got Stockholm syndrome and ended up adopted by the guy and A. The author seemed to think it was all great? And B. Bruce was made to be a TERRIBLE batdad and I just have a sick taste in my mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to crazysnake19 for donating! Also, I’m so sorry that you read something like that, Monica. I wouldn’t be able to handle that. Here’s some Dick feeling safe with Bruce around. I hope it makes you feel a bit better!

* * *

_“Shit,”_  Dick mutters under his breath, knocking away another attacker. There are dozens of them, all over the warehouse, all out for his blood. And they just  _keep coming._  Shit, indeed.

He doesn’t know why there are so many. According to heat signatures, the traffic cams Oracle had hacked into, his informants, and his own detective work, there were only supposed to be ten men here to protect the shipment of guns. Instead, Dick’s fighting thirty.

He’d planned to call for backup as soon as he’d slipped into the warehouse and seen that he was so outnumbered, or at least cut his losses. He can usually tell when he’s in over his head, but he’d been snuck up on, and he’d been forced to show himself.

Dick has taken out ten men before he realized that they were ready for him, and by then, he’s too busy to press the button on his comm. to contact the others. He’s going to have to hit his suit’s panic button.

That’s, of course, when he gets hit in the face.

He rolls with the blow, sweeping out the feet of another man, and striking upwards. The man groans in pain, and that’s eleven down. He fights like a whirlwind, but in the end, it’s not enough. He hits the button. And then someone takes a tire iron to the back of his head.

He drops to the ground.

Still conscious, but just barely, Dick hears murmuring, and then there are hands on him. He doesn’t have enough sense to shake them off, and even if he did, he doesn’t think he’d have the strength. They’re dragging him.

“…rid of him,” someone’s ordering. “The river…enough…kill him…the evidence.”

 _The river._  They’re going to throw him into the river.

Dick thrashes, startling whoever’s ragging him into dropping him. He tries to roll over, to push himself to his feet, but he gets another blow to the head for his efforts, and he drops back to the floor. Everything’s muffled. He can’t see anything, voices sound like they’re talking to him from a tunnel, and he feels a sort of numbness settle over him.

And then he plunges into the icy depths of the river. He eyes shoot open from the shock of it, and the water engulfs him fully. He’s sinking, too cold and disoriented to do more than weakly struggle his way towards what he  _thinks_  might be the surface.

His lungs burn. He can’t  _breathe_. But he has to hold his breath until he gets to the surface. Until he gets air—he can’t—he has to—breathe. He has to breathe.

Dick reflexively takes a breath, and water rushes into his lungs. His eyelids flutter, and he finds himself drifting. He can’t breathe, he can’t cough it up. He doesn’t have enough oxygen, and the numbness is settling over him again. This is it.

And then, hands are tugging him upwards, and Dick doesn’t fight them. Everything goes dark, and Dick lets it.

The next thing Dick knows, someone is turning him over, and he’s coughing up a lungful of water. He coughs and coughs and coughs, until his burning lungs can’t take it anymore, and he chokes on his first breath.

“Easy,” a voice tells him. A voice he knows That’s—

“Bruce,” Dick tries to croak, but it’s lost to the desperate need to  _breathe._

Bruce’s hands pull him closer. Dick flops his head onto his dad’s shoulder immediately, and Bruce lets him. Kevlar is uncomfortable, but Dick can’t find it in him to care. Especially when Bruce’s gloved hands tangle in his wet hair and curl around him protectively. And Dick—he doesn’t try to move. He just sits there and tries to  _breathe._

“You’re okay,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re alright, Dick.”

“Names,” Dick tries to joke, but it comes out a rasp, and Bruce hushes him, clutching him that much tighter. Dick buries his face into Bruce’s shoulder. He’s not comfortable, but he doesn’t think that there’s anywhere else he’d rather be right now.

Finally, Bruce says, “Let’s get you home.”

Dick’s voice is still barely there, but he has enough strength to say, “Yeah.”

He still feels shaky, but with Bruce here, helping him to his feet, the numbness isn’t quite as prominent. He feels—safe. Bruce leads him to the Batmobile, and it takes a moment, but finally Dick finally settles into the passenger seat, eyes sliding closed in his exhaustion. He lays his head on the window, wrapping his arms around himself, and just lets himself  _be._

“Here,” Bruce says, and when Dick forces his eyes back open, Bruce is cowl-less and holding out his cape to Dick. Swallowing past a growing lump in his throat, Dick takes the proffered material, and wraps it around himself the best he can. When he falters, Bruce helps him wordlessly.

For some reason, Dick feels like crying.

After a moment of just sitting there, Bruce tells him, “Don’t fall asleep yet.”

Dick nods and then they’re speeding off towards the Cave at high speeds. Dick can feel exhaustion aching in every bone of his body. His head pounds, his lungs and throat still burn with every breath he takes, but he keeps his eye open. He stays awake. Bruce is next to him, Bruce’s cape is around him, and they’re going home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tantalum-cobalt asked: 93 from that latest prompt list you reblogged with Dick and Bruce on patrol and B thinking something is wrong / Dick is hiding something (injury, illness, whatever) from him. Whether he is or not is to to you :)
> 
> anonymous asked: prompt: an untreated head injury leaves robin!dick with bad vertigo and being the stubborn bird he is, he doesn't tell anyone
> 
> _93\. “You’ve been quiet.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tsfennec. Thank you for donating :) Here’s some hurt Dick and protective Bruce for you! Also, this prompt has been sitting in my inbox for months, so thank you for being patient.

There’s something wrong, Bruce thinks.

It’s the third time Dick has swayed sideways only to catch himself in just as many hours, and there’s been a significant lack of chattering from the eleven-year-old that’s perched next to him. Bruce would blame distraction, but Dick’s sits still as they watch the building across the street and asks the occasional question about the case.

But, there’s no smile, no rambling, no excited whoops that make Bruce secretly smile when Dick’s not looking, and no movement.

“Robin,” Bruce finds himself saying.

Dick starts and half-turns toward him. Batman is silent for a moment, but he’s curious. And he’s not going to admit it out loud, but he may also be a little concerned. Dick doesn’t do  _not moving_ well, and this statue impression he’s trying out is grating on some nerves that Bruce doesn’t often acknowledge.

“Batman?” Dick asks after Bruce is silent a beat too long.

“You’ve been quiet,” Bruce says.

“Oh.” It’s apparently all Dick has to say on the subject.

Bruce tries not to grind his teeth. He’s not largely successful. “Explain.”

Dick freezes—which is a feat, considering he wasn’t moving all that much anyways. He looks more like a statue than Bruce could ever manage, and according to both Dick and Alfred on several occasions, that’s almost impossible.

 _“You could give a gargoyle a run for its money,”_  Dick has once told him after a particularly long stakeout.  _“Maybe we should hold a competition. Alfred can be the judge!”_

Bruce mood sours. His anger and concern skyrocket. There’s no cheer left in Dick’s demeanor, and Bruce doesn’t know what to  _do_  about it.

 _“Robin.”_  The name comes out a command, even if he hadn’t meant it to. But Dick starts moving again, grimacing, and Bruce waits.

Dick looks away. “It’s not important to the case.”

“Something’s wrong.” It’s not a question.

“No.” Dick’s shoulder’s slump. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.  _Please_  don’t send me home. This is the first case we’ve worked together since you grounded me for fighting.”

Bruce doesn’t let his face change. “Are you sick?”

“No!” Dick shouts, looking ready to jump forward.

Bruce shifts almost automatically, ready to catch the boy should he come flying at him. It’s certainly not the first time it’s happened. Dick catches himself, though, and he winces.

He’s hurt.

“Where,” Bruce growls.

Dick looks absolutely heart-broken. “B, I’m not—"

 _“Where,_  Robin.”

Dick’s silent a moment more, and then—

“Someone pushed me down the stairs at school from behind,” Dick whispers, his eyes settled on the roof beneath them. “I hit my head on the ground. It wasn’t hard, but I’ve been kind of dizzy all day. I thought it would go away by now.”

Batman closes his eyes, and he thinks—like he’s thought so many times before—that he has no  _idea_  what he’s doing with this kid. When they’re Batman and Robin, it’s—well. Not  _easy_ , but it’s bearable. Bruce feels less unbalanced with the cowl and cape, and Robin standing at his side. He feels in control.

But when it comes to Bruce and Dick, he feels clueless. Like he’s stumbling. Dick’s a naturally energetic child, and he has friends and a life and interests outside of Robin. He goes to school and he  _likes_  it. Bruce doesn’t know what to do with this child sometimes. He feels like one misstep will send their life tumbling to the ground and he’ll find himself picking up the pieces.

When Dick brings his day life into the night life—because to Dick, it’s all  _one life—_ Bruce doesn’t know what to do. And maybe that’s why he lets the cowl dictate his actions.

“Go wait in the car,” Bruce says. Dick doesn’t move. “ _Now.”_

Dick scowls at him. “I’m—”

“This isn’t a discussion.  _Go.”_

Of course, Dick doesn’t go. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively, and his shoulders tense. He’s getting ready for a fight. On a rooftop. In the middle of Crime Alley. On a  _stakeout._  And Dick’s opens his mouth to argue his case when Bruce hears shouting from the building they were supposed to be watching, the one that hadn’t had any movement two moments before, and Bruce acts on instinct.

He dives at Dick and they go rolling across the rooftop, just as the gunshots go off. They come to a stop just out of range of the lower rooftop, Bruce crouching protectively over Dick. The sound of gunfire stops, and Bruce waits one, two, three, four, five seconds before pushing himself off of Dick and looking down at the boy.

For a moment, Bruce’s heart stops. Dick doesn’t move, and Bruce fumbles— _fumbles_ —to get a glove off, to check for a pulse. It’s there, and there’s a rise and fall to Dick’s chest, but Bruce snaps his fingers in front of Dick’s face. Dick doesn’t respond.

Bruce scoops him up. They need to get out of here.

The next few moments are a blur to Bruce. He evades the men with the guns—and he’ll have to find another opportunity to take them down—and somehow sets Dick in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. He vaults to the other side and speeds off towards the cave.

He’s angry.  _Beyond_  angry. With Dick. With himself.

But that can come later. Bruce needs to get Dick to Alfred first. Then he can deal with Dick not telling him about being injured.

He steps on it.

* * *

“What were you  _thinking?”_

Dick glares at the floor and doesn’t respond. Alfred shoots Bruce a look from where he’s pressing an icepack to the back of Dick’s head. Bruce, for once, doesn’t back down. Alfred doesn’t, either.

“I think Master Dick has gone through enough headache tonight, don’t you think sir?”

“He didn’t tell me he was injured,” Bruce shoots back. “It put both of us in danger. He was almost killed tonight.”

“With all due respect, Master Bruce,” Alfred steps in again before Dick can retort, his tone sharp, “I believe it’s better if this conversation is held off until Master Dick is coherent to participate fully. Don’t you?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just spins around on his heel and walks to the computer. He has other problems to deal with right now. Like finding out where the men they were staking out tonight have relocated to. He has a lot of work to do if he wants to stop them anytime soon.

Behind him, Dick doesn’t say a word. Not even when Alfred ushers him upstairs to bed.

Bruce tries to ignore the tightening of his chest. It’s nothing. He has work to do, and Alfred’s right. He’ll deal with Dick later.

* * *

Later comes about two hours later.

It’s almost three in the morning by the time Bruce gets a lock on the men. He’d followed them with security cameras until he found their new hideout, pulled up the blueprints, and made a new plan to get them off the streets. He’ll have to stakeout the new warehouse, too, just in case there’s something he missed, but he can handle that.

The next thing he does is hack into Dick’s school security cameras, and watches Dick get shoved from behind, barely be able to control his fall so that he doesn’t end up with anything worse than a concussion. There are no teachers around, and the students barely pay attention. The only person who helps Dick is Barbara Gordon, the Commissioner’s daughter.

Nobody reports the incident, and it’s forgotten. They don’t call Bruce. The student who pushed Dick down doesn’t get in trouble. Bruce has to minimize the screen when his stomach flips.

What would have happened if Dick had been hurt worse? Would anyone have told him?

“Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders fall, and sighing is a close thing.

“You’re not asleep, are you?” Dick asks, peeking around the chair. He looks—better. Some of Bruce’s tension falls away when he meets Dick’s blue eyes.

“No,” Bruce breaths out. “But you should be.”

Dick frowns. “I had a nightmare.”

Bruce holds his arms open, and Dick doesn’t hesitate to scramble into his lap and wrap his small arms around Bruce’s neck, hold just shy of choking him. Bruce curls an arm around his son’s back and pulls him closer. Dick buries his face in Bruce’s chest.

“Sorry for not telling you,” Dick mumbles, his voice muffled. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Bruce hums. “Don’t do it again, chum. We do dangerous things, and every mistake could be—”

“—your last,” Dick finishes. “I know. I was just—scared, I think. That you were gonna bench me since I couldn’t even take care of myself at school.”

Bruce closes his eyes and wraps his other arm around Dick, engulfing his son in a hug fully. He’s not  _good_  at this. He doesn’t know what he should say, or whether it will be the right one. Or if he’ll say something and it will drive them further apart.

Dick shouldn’t be scared to come to him for things like this. He  _shouldn’t._

“I would have benched you,” Bruce says after a moment, and Dick tenses. “But it wouldn’t have been for you being pushed down the stairs. It would have been because you’re hurt, and you need to be at your best when you’re out there. Both of us do, remember?”

Dick nods a few times, his hold tightening slightly, and Bruce drops a kiss on top of his head. He wishes he were better at this. But he isn’t, so he does what he can, rocking Dick back and forth slowly until Dick sniffles once, twice, and then he’s shaking against Bruce’s chest.

And holding Dick is all Bruce can do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 40\. "You know, you can stay if you want to." Bruce and Dick!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rose for donating! Again, you didn’t leave a prompt, so I just chose something from my inbox.

Dick screams.

He screams and screams and  _screams_ , and it’s all Bruce can do hold him down while Alfred cuts into Dick’s thigh to remove the bullet. Dick’s skin is coated with sweat, his cheeks are flushed with fever, and his eyes are screwed up in pain. Every second Dick screams is another second Bruce’s heart twists and pulls.

Bruce doesn’t know where the night went wrong. One minute he’s on patrol with Tim, and the next, Oracle’s on the line, shouting at Batman to get to Nightwing as fast as possible. Bruce got to the abandoned building Barbara had directed him to within seconds, only to find Dick puking his guts out, bleeding to death from a bullet wound in his leg—it’d nicked an artery, Bruce would later find out—and dosed up with a chemical compound Bruce couldn’t identify without the help of his equipment in the Cave.

So he gets them all there fast, and Bruce thinks it was a good thing that Damian was on patrol with Cassandra right now, because there is no way in hell Bruce would let him see something like this.

“Hurry up, Tim,” Bruce barks out, pushing back down on Dick’s shoulders when he tries to buck Bruce off.

Bruce’s heart hurts at the sight of it. He can’t give Dick anything until Tim finishes the blood analysis, too afraid of what could happen if he mixed morphine with whatever’s in Dick’s system. Dick could fall asleep and never wake up, and Bruce isn’t about to risk that.

But, they also can’t wait on stitching up Dick’s wound. He’s bleeding.  _Badly._  And the longer they wait, the riskier it will get. But Dick’s thrashing and screaming and in  _pain_ , and there’s nothing Bruce can do but hold his torso still so Alfred can work.

And then Dick goes silent.

Bruce and Tim both freeze, Alfred keeps stitching.

“Dick?” Bruce asks, eyes on his son’s scrunched up face. “Dick, can you hear me?”

Dick’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out except for a choked sob. Bruce can barely breathe.

“What’s wrong?” Tim calls out.

There’s—something. In Tim’s voice. Bruce doesn’t like it, either, but unfortunately, he can only deal with one thing at a time, and Dick’s silence, his tense body as Alfred finishes the last stitch on his leg and then starts on a graze on his arm—it has Bruce unable to look away.

“Dick,” Bruce practically orders. “Look at me.”

Dick doesn’t look.

_“Look at me.”_

Dick’s eye open, and they’re clouded with a haze of pain and fever. Whatever’s in his system in causing Dick agony, and probably damaging his immune system at the same time. His body isn’t going to be able to fight it off on its own.

“You’re going to be okay,” Bruce says. It’s true. It  _has_  to be true. Dick doesn’t respond.  _“_ Dick. Dick!  _Do you hear me.”_

He’s scared.  _Terrified._  He’s gone through this so many times he can’t even count them all, but every time is still as agonizing as the last. Each tears another little piece of his heart, and he’s afraid that in a year, maybe less, he’ll have no more of his mutilated, twisted heart to give.

His son stares at him, haze still present, but he gives Bruce a nod.

And that’s enough. Because if Dick is still fighting, they’ll get through this, no matter how terrified Bruce is. He will never give up on his children.  _Never._

Alfred stitches, Tim analyzes, and Bruce—well. Bruce sits by Dick’s side, and he’s not leaving.

* * *

It’s hours later that Bruce finally is able to sit down and stare at Dick’s unconscious form. They’d gotten an antidote to whatever was ravaging Dick’s system—one of Ivy’s poisons, and she’d had a fanatic with her, too. This time with a gun. Batman will have to follow up eventually.

But they’d administered the antidote, found a medication that wouldn’t mix poorly with the chemicals still in Dick’s system, and managed to fix Dick up enough that he wouldn’t be in danger of bleeding out.

Bruce is exhausted from holding Dick down while he screamed himself hoarse, dealing with an upset Damian when he’d seen Dick laid up on a medical cot, and he’s exhausted from  _feeling._  He’s staring down Dick—his  _kid,_  because Dick may be an adult, but Bruce won’t ever be able to stop seeing that nine-year-old boy swinging from the chandelier or sliding down the banister, a troublemaker grin plastered on his face—and his chest won’t lose that tight metal band.

It feels like he can’t breathe.

He wants to go, to remove himself from this situation. He wants a moment to forget that he’d done this all to himself. He’d taken in this kid and loved him, and it’s his fault they’re both in so much pain from this.

He’s not good at this.

“You know,” a voice says, and Bruce turns to look at Tim. There’s a strange light in his son’s eyes. “You can stay if you want to. I know Dick would probably like you here when he wakes up.”

Bruce’s lips thin. He and Tim are too similar, sometimes.

“You’re right,” Bruce says, but it isn’t easy, and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He looks back to Dick. He hasn’t stirred, and it will probably a long time until he does. Tim Bruce could be doing hunting down Ivy and the fan with the gun. But— “I’ll stay.”

Tim nods once, sharply, and then he curls up on the chair next to Bruce. They don’t talk, and at some point, Tim falls asleep, his head tilting until it’s settled against Bruce’s shoulder. Tim had been scared for Dick, Bruce knows, and Bruce thinks if he could, he would sigh and wonder why he can’t seem to protect his children.

But he can’t. He’s already been down that road, and it took a lot to pull him away from it. For now, he sits at his eldest’s bedside while his second youngest dozes on his shoulder, and he hopes that there won’t be a next time.

Except—there’s always a next time, and no matter what Bruce does, he can never seem to prevent it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "I'm so proud of you" bruce and dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MJ for donating! Here’s your Bruce and Dick kidnapped content!

A soft call of his name is the first thing that Dick registers through the haze fogging up his brain. He’s at half-processing speed right now, and it takes him an uncomfortably long time to even recognize the voice he should know in his sleep. Not enough Batman, but not enough charm to be Brucie Wayne. So that just leaves plain old—

“Bruce?” Dick groans. His head is hanging, and he doesn’t have enough energy to do anything but roll it sort of in the direction from where he thinks his name had been called. Maybe. It’s hard to remember anything. Or move. Or think.

“Can you open your eyes for me, chum?”

Dick hums, grimacing when he peels his eyelids open.

The world around him is a hazy, blurry mess. Too bright, too dark. Too much, but not enough. He doesn’t recognize anything past fuzzy shapes and dark colors, and the effort of keeping his eyes open leaves him absolutely drained. They slip closed again, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Dick,” Bruce calls again, more urgent than the first time.

He sounds close. Close enough that he would have seen Dick’s attempt to do as he asked. Dick wonders if he’s going to be asked to open his eyes again, and if he’s going to have to keep them open. He hates to admit it, but he’s too tired. Too exhausted. If Bruce asks, though, Dick’s going to do it. Whether he wants to or not. It’s been beat into him for the past seven years.

“Dick,” Bruce says. “I need you to look at me.”

And there it is. Dick tries to fight.

“I’m tired,” he croaks, and something bubbles up in his chest. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at Bruce. He wants to sleep. “Bruce, I’m  _really_  tired.”

“You were hit in the head, Dick,” Bruce tells him, and there’s a softness to his voice that Dick remembers from his childhood.

When he was nine, freshly orphaned and nightmare-ridden, he’d always seemed to find his way to Bruce’s room. Sobs hitching in his chest as he watched his parents fall again and again, and he’d thought  _Bruce is Batman. Bruce will make this go away_ , and he’d slip under the covers of Bruce’s bed. Bruce would wake up and curl around him, holding him and whispering reassurances in that deep, gentle voice until he fell asleep.

Better days, Dick thinks somewhat bitterly. Now, Dick’s sixteen and it’s hard to go to Bruce for anything anymore. Dick’s not stupid. He knows Bruce is doing it on purpose. Pushing him away. Dick doesn’t know why, and he’s angry enough that he pushes back, until the words turn to silence.

There are rarely good days, now.

“Stay with me, Dick,” Bruce says.

Dick makes a face. “I didn’t go anywhere,” he murmurs.

“You did,” Bruce tells him.

There’s a pause, and Dick lets the silence wash over him a moment, feeling that haze come back to try and claim his brain again. The haze is much more welcome to consume him than the pain of the real world. He’s tired, and he can’t remember where he is or how he even got here, or why there’s—

Is there rope binding his hands behind his back?

Dick’s eyes slam open, and his breath hitches in his chest. He takes in the dark surroundings of the warehouse around him. Things are still blurry and hazy, and his brain’s a gigantic mess, but he can make out the empty space in front of him. The people-shaped blurs across it. The mound of something (boxes?) to his right. Bruce to his left, in much the same position as he is.

He can’t make out Bruce’s face, no matter how much he blinks—can’t get his eyes to focus on much of anything—but he thinks that Bruce is looking at him a little wary.

That’s when Dick’s training kicks in. He forces himself to calm down. To take an actual breath. He closes his eyes and lets his chin drop back to his chest. He doesn’t think anyone’s around them, but there are definitely people—they’re captors, probably—across the room, and Dick doesn’t want them to realize he’s awake quite yet.

Unless they already saw him freak out. Then there’s probably no point. But he’s going to go the optimistic route and hope that they hadn’t. Plus, Bruce hasn’t said anything about them. He’s probably in the clear to keep pretending.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks, that soft tone back.

Dick swallows, and he assesses himself. His hands are tied behind his back. His head is throbbing, making his thoughts fuzzy, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Everything’s aching, but there’s nothing that particularly stands out, so he’s probably in the clear.

“Concussion,” Dick murmurs. “I think. Besides that, bruises.”

“Stay awake,” Bruce reminds him. “Help’s on the way.”

Dick wants to laugh bitterly.  _What_  help? Batman and Robin are sitting here, in a warehouse, hands tied behind their backs. Figuratively  _and_  literally. The Justice League is off world, too—and even if they weren’t, they probably couldn’t get away with saving Bruce and Dick out of the blue without good reason—and Barbara’s not in town, either. At some college camp thing she’s been raving about for a good month.

Their only help would be the police, but would the GCPD even be able to—

“FREEZE!” a familiar voice shouts, and Dick sags even further. Commissioner Gordon. The GCPD. Cops. There’s a scuffle that Dick can’t bother to pay attention to, and he just lets himself go for a few seconds.

He realizes now that he’d been preparing himself to figure out a plan to get him and Bruce out of here. He’d been thinking that there’d been no other option but to save themselves, and some part of Dick feels so  _bitter_  about it. When had he stopped trusting the cops to do their jobs?

Maybe. Maybe, he needs to put a little more trust into the cops. Maybe.

Commissioner Gordon’s always been someone who he’s trusted without question, never doubting that the man was trying his best to work with the hand he’d been dealt with, and there’s no way that the man would ever leave Bruce and Dick to the wolves, right?

And there are good cops, too. Officers he’s worked and chatted with. Ones that send him small smiles every time he cracks a joke or tries to banter with the dark stone wall that’s Batman.

When had he become so  _jaded_ , that he didn’t trust anyone else to come for them? Is it a product of spending too much time with Bruce, or is it because he’s spent the past few months  _arguing_  with Bruce. He’s not sure if he knows, and he doesn’t like the picture either paints.

“Dick?” Bruce says. His name again. It takes another moment to register, but then Dick jerks his head up, pries his eyes open to see Bruce’s worried expression swimming in front of his face. Someone’s undone the ropes on both of them, and Bruce is crouching in front of him. There’s blood on his face, and he looks so— _scared._  He looks scared. “You with me, chum?”

“Yeah,” Dick breathes. He doesn’t dare nod. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

Bruce nods, something that almost looks like relief on his face. Except, that’s too many emotions for Bruce Wayne. For Batman. He’s got like, three, and Dick’s pretty sure relief’s not one of them. Hasn’t been for a long time.

“I’m proud of you,” Bruce tells him, and it’s quiet.

Dick’s lips twist into a grimace. “I didn’t do anything. The police saved us.”

“You opened your eyes.” Bruce’s hand hesitates just a beat, and then he’s pushing Dick’s hair away from his forehead. “You stayed awake.”

“Barely.”

“You still did it.”

Dick hums, and he lets himself tilt forward, burying his nose into Bruce’s shirt. His hands are free, though he has no recollection of that actually happening. But he brings them up, twisting his fingers into Bruce’s shirt as Bruce hesitantly pulls him in for a hug.

They’re both so bad at this, now. That easiness from the early years is gone, replaced with the tension from months of arguing, but as Dick lets himself melt into his dad’s arms, everything from just hours comes rushing back—

_A gala. One where Dick’s expected to play the Lucky Charity Case. They’re stormed by gunmen. Gordon’s furious face. Gunmen surrounding Bruce, aiming a gun at his temple. Dick’s heart leaps into his throat, and he wants to slip away, thinking maybe he could come back as Robin and do something other than stand here uselessly, but one of the gunmen sees him when he tries to duck away, and he’s told to—_

_“Stop! Or I blow daddy’s brains out, brat!”_

_Bruce’s eyes are hard, gaze flicking to the door closest to Dick. A clear sign to run and not worry about Bruce. Like hell. Dick doesn’t go anywhere._

_Dick only has a second to register the butt of the gun swinging at him before his world explodes with pain. He hears distant shouting and there’s this nauseating feeling of being carried over someone’s shoulders._

_Bruce’s voice breaks through his haze, just for a moment. Just a burst, of “Don’t you dare touch my son!” and then the dark trickles in, and Dick knows no more._

“Are you okay?” Dick wonders, his voice barely a whisper as he murmurs into Bruce’s shirt. He’s not even sure his words were actually audible, but Bruce seems to understand, anyways.

“Am  _I_  okay?” Bruce asks, something like disbelief in his voice. It’s hard to tell when Dick still has trouble focusing on anything but the way his heart is hammering in his chest and his breath won’t stay steady no matter how many breathing techniques he tries.

“Bruce,” Dick pleads, grip on the fabric tightening. “Please.”

Bruce is quiet a moment, and then, “I’m fine. The paramedics are here to look at you.”

Dick feels a stab of irritation. He doesn’t want paramedics. He wants—well. He wants to not move. He wants to sleep. He wants him and Bruce to stop fighting all the damn time. He wants to have one patrol where Bruce doesn’t give him a stupid order that makes it seem like Dick’s not trustworthy.

“Fuck the paramedics,” Dick decides.

 _“Dick,”_  Bruce is quick to reprimand, but Dick cuts him off before Bruce can go anywhere.

“I just wanna go home,” Dick tells him, letting go of the front of Bruce’s shirt to snake his arms around Bruce’s back and shove himself into a proper hug. Bruce, luckily, doesn’t let go. He just sighs. “Bruce, please. Just let me go home.”

“You’re hurt, Dick.” There’s a frown in Bruce’s voice.

 _“Please,”_  Dick says. His head is so messed up and he has about zero control over his emotions, and if this goes on any longer, Dick’s afraid he’s going to start crying. As it is, he’s practically blubbering already. “Alfred can. I just. Please.  _Bruce.”_

Bruce’s hold tightens, one hand going to gently cup the back of Dick’s head. “Just let them look you over, Dick,” Bruce says, and. There’s a hitch to his breath. A weakness to it that no one but maybe Alfred and Clark would pick up on. “You’re hurt.”

Scared, Dick’s brain reminds him. Bruce had looked scared. Probably still is. Dick swallows past a lump in his throat, and he knows that the only way Bruce is going to be okay is if Dick agrees. He doesn’t want to, everything in him wanting to rebel against Bruce again and again until Bruce stops suffocating him and starts trusting him, but he also loves Bruce like a dad. Enough that he can hardly stand to hear that tremble, even concussed as he is.

“Okay,” Dick finally relents. “But you have to stay with me. And then we go home.”

Bruce’s fingers run through his hair again, and Dick can feel his movements when he nods. “Paramedics, and then we go home,” Bruce agrees.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "No matter how hard I try, it's not enough. It'll never be enough."

The first thing Bruce registers as he jerks awake is the sound of muffled sobbing. His bedroom is almost pitch black with the curtains closed, but he squints over to where the sound is coming from, and he thinks he can make out a head of dark hair. It has Bruce sitting up and fumbling for the lamp, panic spiking in his chest when he turns it on and sees his oldest curled up into a ball on the floor, back to Bruce’s bed as he sobs into his own knees.

Bruce is scrambling out of bed before he can really think about it, dropping to his knees on front of Dick, hands hovering, but not touching. Dick hasn’t reacted to any of this movement besides curling further in on himself, and Bruce’s own breathing stutters with how much it hurts to see Dick’s shake with the force of trying to suppress his crying.

“Shh,” Bruce says, one hand gently falling into Dick’s hair, running his fingers through the soft locks, while his other arm curls around Dick’s back and gently draws him closer.

Dick lets himself be tugged forward, and Bruce takes the opportunity to pull his son into his lap, curling around his son and hushing him slowly. He rocks backwards and forwards, but Dick’s crying shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

“You’re okay, Dick,” Bruce tells him, hoping and praying that it’s true. He closes his eyes, cards his fingers through his son’s hair, and tries to keep himself together. For Dick. “You’re alright.”

For some reason, Dick just starts crying harder, so much so that he’s not even making any noise now. His shoulders shake, and his fingers tangle in Bruce’s shirt. Bruce pulls back, just a little in order to look at Dick’s face, and there’s panic written in it. His chest heaves uselessly. Dick’s crying so hard, he can’t breathe.

“Dick,” Bruce says, his voice a touch harder. “You need to calm down before you start to hyperventilate.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” Dick breathes out, and he chokes on an inhale, the air catching in his chest. He coughs on the breath, and this isn’t working. Dick’s eyes squeeze shut, and he croaks out, “I can’t breathe. Can’t—"

“Okay,” Bruce tells him. He grabs one of Dick’s hands, untangles it from the fabric of Bruce’s shirt, and he helps Dick lay it flat against his chest, so that Dick can feel the rise and fall of Bruce’s chest as breathes slow and steady. “Breathe with me, Dick. In.” Bruce inhales, and Dick tries to follow his example. “And out.”

They do that for a long while. Bruce loses track of how long it takes for Dick’s breaths to even out, and by the time they do, Dick is completely spent. He doesn’t resist when Bruce brings him closer, mirroring their earlier position as Bruce practically curls around his son in this desperate need to keep him safe. Dick settles his head against Bruce’s collarbone.

It would almost be peaceful if Dick’s panic attack hadn’t preluded this.

After a few more minutes, Bruce finally asks a quiet, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dick takes a shaky breath, lets it out just a touch steadier, and when he speaks, there’s no sign of unsteadiness. It’s flat, dispassionate, uninterested. So unlike Dick. “I had a bad dream.”

Bruce’s arms tighten around his son, and he closes his eyes against his rising self-loathing. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I wasn’t—” Dick hesitates, though, and Bruce waits it out. “I wasn’t gonna make it. It hit me too hard, and I can’t—I just can’t.”

“What hit you too hard, Dick?” Bruce prods, but he’s careful.

“There’s so much,” Dick tells him, is voice shudder, and he sounds like he’s about to cry again. “There’s so much, and I can’t handle it. I have so much I’m supposed to do, but no matter how hard I try, it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”

Bruce hates this. He hates how dragging these children into his war had affected them so badly. He hates that Dick is hurting right now, and all he can do is sit here and hold him. Because it’s Bruce’s fault in the first place.

Dick has become this wonderful young man, a man that Bruce is so proud of, and he often wonders how Dick could have turned out so inherently good. And that’s when he remembers that he’d put the weight on Dick’s shoulders, the weight that’s crushing him now. He’d done this, and he can’t do anything but hold Dick in his arms and try to will away the weight.

“You’re doing plenty,” Bruce tells him, quiet and gentle and kind. “I’m proud of you.”

_But please don’t wear yourself out trying to take on the world and win every time. Don’t be like me._

He can’t say it, but he drops a small kiss on his son’s forehead, and when Dick starts crying again—small hiccups. He doesn’t fall apart quite like before—Bruce rocks him back and forth, and back and forth where they’re sitting on the floor, in the light, and it’s all Bruce can do for now. It’s all he has in him, and he wishes he could do more. He wishes he could take the pain from Dick. Take it upon himself and bare himself to the world, all so Dick wouldn’t have to go through any more grief and strife.

All so Dick could be happy.

But he can’t. So he holds Dick, and prays that, for tonight at least, it’ll be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "I'm fine it's just a flesh wound. I'm fine" with Dick please

“I’m fine,” Dick grits out, batting Tim’s hands away from his arm. The kid’s shaking, and on nights like tonight, Dick’s reminded just how  _young_  Tim is.

Tim’s expression is stricken. His gaze never leave the long cut on Dick’s arm. Tim’s thirteen and frozen, because Dick had just let himself get hurt in front of him, and now he regrets letting this happen down to his very bones. Because that’s exactly what had put  _that_  look on Tim’s face.

Tim’s hands come up again, and Dick pushes them back down, biting back a grunt of pain at the movement. “I’m  _fine,_  Tim,” Dick says, and he knows it’s mostly true. He’ll need Alfred to stitch him up a little, but he’s not going to die. Not from this. “It’s just a flesh wound. I’m fine.”

Tim catches his lip between his teeth, and if Tim weren’t wearing his mask right now, Dick thinks that Tim would be glancing between Dick’s face and the cut. As it is, Dick can read that worry in his face like a book, and he  _knows_  that big brain of Tim’s is racing a mile a minute.

“I should call Batman,” Tim says at last.

“No need,” Dick tells him, pushing down the scathing words that threaten to push past his lips at the thought of telling Bruce anything about his injuries. It’s not like that anymore. It hasn’t been like that in  _months._  “I’m going back to the Cave, and I can let him know I’ll be out of commission the rest of the night on the way there.”

Tim frowns. “You can’t ride with one arm.”

Dick flashes him a strained grin. “I’ve ridden home with worse.”

“But the Batmobile,” Tim tells him, softly. “I’m sure Batman wouldn’t mind if you took it home. Since you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Dick says, exasperated. He goes to cross his arms over his chest, and—

—his arm is on  _fire._  He staggers backwards into the warehouse wall behind him and starts sliding down. And that’s where he stays as Tim crouches down next to him. And when the fire spreads from his arm down to his wrist and his hand, until it’s engulfing him entirely, and Dick has to keep himself very,  _very_  still in order to keep the pain to a minimum. He closes his eyes, too.

Maybe he’s not so fine.

“I’m calling Batman,” Tim says, a little waver to his voice that his determination can’t hide. Dick’s teeth are gritted, though, and he thinks if he tries to speak, he’ll end up biting his tongue, so he can’t do anything as Tim presses the button on his comm. unit and says, “Robin to Batman. Nightwing’s down.”

Dick loses time after that, too caught up in handling the pain in his arm. In not vocalizing it. Because he thinks if he opens his mouth, all that will be coming out of it are moans. And not the fun kind.

“Nightwing,” a coarse voice says at some point, and then there’s a hand on his forehead and some murmuring, and Dick forces his eyes open. It’s Bruce in front of him—well. Batman. But there’s concern somewhere under the cowl, and Dick thinks that he must have had  _real_  bad luck to get  _that_  look while Bruce is still Batman. “We need to get you to the Cave. Now.”

“How bad’sit?” Dick manages to slur out, just as Tim and Bruce lift him into a standing position. 

He can’t get his feet under him, though, and there’s something very  _wrong_  about the fact that his body is damn useless right now, when just moments ago he’d been perfectly fine. It had just been a cut. Just a flesh wound.

“Poison on the knife,” Bruce tells him, his voice strangely quiet.

Dick tries to nod—because  _of course_ that’s what would have happened to him, and he’s just glad it wasn’t Timmy that had gotten cut—but his head ends up lolling, falling onto Bruce’s shoulder as he’s dragged over to the Batmobile and hurried inside of it. 

He lets his family herd him into the car, closing his eyes against the burning pain again. It honestly feels like his arm is on fire again, but with Bruce and Tim murmuring as his background noise, Dick can’t find in him to worry too much about the outcome. He’ll fight and struggle against the need to fall unconscious, but he trusts his dad and his little brother to take care of him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Very sleep deprived/injuried/sick Jason calling Bruce "dad" in the haze of his physical weakness and Bruce just melting inside because it's been so long since he last hear him call him that.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Bruce murmurs to the figure slumped sideways on his couch, but Jason doesn’t answer. But that’s alright. Because Bruce already knows the answer to his own question.

He barely looks aware as Bruce crouches down next to his son, and Bruce grimaces at the fever bright eyes that appear less and less as Jason’s blinks get slower an slower. After a hesitant moment, Bruce brushes his hand across Jason’s forehead, and he’s relieved when all Jason does is sigh and lean into the touch.

Bruce closes his eyes, and unsuccessfully tries to push away his building emotions. It takes a second, but Bruce feels in control of himself enough to open his eyes, and when he does, he meets Jason’s gaze. He looks more coherent than he had only minutes ago, and Bruce takes that as a good sign.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Bruce says when Jason doesn’t speak. It’s not what he wants to say, but it comes out that way anyways. He’s never been good with words, though, so it doesn’t come as a surprise.

Jason, though—maybe too sick or too tired, or a combination of both—doesn’t react much. All he does is close his eyes, lean further into Bruce’s touch, and say, “Sorry, dad,” in a slurred voice—

—and Bruce’s heart stutters.

It’s not an unfamiliar word, in the way that it’s not  _familiar,_ either. Dick will call him that sometimes. More now, than he’d had as an energetic child, convinced that they were partners—teammates, equals—more than they were father and son like Bruce tended to think of them as. Bruce doesn’t exactly remember the first time that had changed, when it had shifted for him and Dick. But it had, at some point, and now Dick calls him that quite often. Calls him  _dad_ in various ways.

But Jason has always been different than Dick. So different. He’d started to call Bruce  _dad_  only months after Bruce had taken him in. It’d been hesitant, but there. And then Bruce had lost Jason, and he’d thought he’d never hear the word be uttered from Jason’s lips ever again. Even after he’d come back to Bruce.

But he says it now, and it makes Bruce’s chest hurt with a familiar old pang mixed with this new aching warmth that he doesn’t understand, and honestly isn’t sure he wants to.

So, Bruce runs his fingers through Jason’s hair, and he whispers, “Sleep, Jason. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Jason sort of hums, and—for once—he does what Bruce tells him to, and sleeps. And Bruce sits there for long minutes afterwards, just watching his sick son’s sleeping face, and wishing that he could somehow take the sickness upon himself.

But he can’t, so Bruce does all he can. He stays.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some birdflash that brings the rating for this up to T.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: “Please put your penis away.” birdflash [smirk emoji]
> 
> (Toni, I know this was you. You aren't subtle.)

“Where are the forks?” Wally says, and then, before Dick can answer, he zooms around the kitchen, rifling through the drawers and cabinets until he triumphantly holds up his prize to Dick, a grin on his face. “Never mind!”

“You could have waited the two seconds it took me to actually tell you,” Dick tells him without any belligerence. He’s sitting on top of the counter, tailor style, his face propped on his hand, elbow on his knee, and his blue eyes are sparkling with amusement despite the shadows growing underneath.

Wally waves him off. “Two seconds too long.”

Dick hums as Wally digs into Alfred’s leftover chicken cordon bleu. Wally’s well aware of the eyes still on him as he hops onto the counter. They settle into a comfortable silence--Wally eating and Dick on his phone, scrolling through a chat of some sort.

As loathe as he is to cut through the pleasant atmosphere, Wally knows they need to talk about this.

“Hey,” Wally says, suddenly, dropping his fork on his plate. Dick glances over at him, but otherwise doesn’t move. He meets Dick’s gaze head on. “Take your shirt off.”

“Please,” Dick deadpans, “put your penis away.”

“Dick, I’m serious.”

“Hi serious,” Dick says. “I don’t give a shit.”

“You’re hurt,” Wally tries again. “I know you are. Take your shirt off or I swear to god I will call Bruce and Alfred, and then you won’t have a choice.”

Dick gets quiet, then. He gives Wally his full attention, his phone screen dimming as the seconds pass, and there’s a fight in Dick’s eye that Wally knows far too well. It takes another long silence, this far more uncomfortable than the first, before Dick finally sighs, his shoulders slumping and the fight leaving him, before he finally complies and takes off his shirt.

Wally sucks in a sharp breath that leaves him just as quick. His food is put to the side, and he slides off the counter, grabbing the medkit under the sink and dropping right next to Dick. Dick watches him the entire time.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Wally murmurs as he rifles through the kit for the rubbing alcohol and some gauze. He can’t summon any heat to put into his words, though. He pours a liberal amount of the alcohol onto the pad of gauze and starts cleaning up the mess of a stab wound that is Dick’s shoulder.

The wound isn’t deep, or all that concerning for Dick’s standards, probably. But if this were Wally, a wound like this would be gone already, and Wally’s reminded how _human_ Dick is at times like this. As capable as he is, he can still get so _hurt._

And then he pulls this kind of crap, too. And the only reason Wally had caught it was because he’d seen the actual fight go down earlier.

Wally cleans and bandages the wound, and Dick doesn’t make a sound. And Wally, never good with silence anyways, opens his mouth and says, “The next time you pull this, I really will call Alfred. And you’ll be in trouble with Alfred, Bruce, _and_ Damian.”

“Alfie would never tell on me,” Dick scoffs, but despite his tone, there’s a small smile on his face. But his complexion is two shades too pale, and the shadows are still creeping underneath his eyes. Dick looks tired and overwhelmed. Like the weight of the world’s on his shoulders. And Wally’s never wanted to contribute to anything that made Dick look like he’s about to lose a battle he’d never hoped to fight in the first place.

So Wally makes a noise of agreement, and says, “Well, the next time you need someone to patch you up without deluding yourself, you’ve got my number, man.”

Dick smiles at him. It’s not blinding, or dazzling, or brilliant, or anything like that, but it’s still very Dick. Full of love and tenderness. A smile reserved for the people Dick calls his friends and family, and when Dick says, “Thank you, Wally,” softly, Wally knows he means it.

“You’re an idiot,” Wally says again, going a bit red and determinedly _not_ looking at Dick’s face.

Dick laughs this time, and replies, “Yeah, well I’m your idiot.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: What about “I’m not buying ikea furniture again.” Jason and Dick

“Nope,” Jason says, slamming the laptop shut.

Dick makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Why not? It’s on sale, the reviews are great, and you  _punched_  my other one!”

“I’m not buying IKEA furniture again,” Jason says, getting up off the couch, leaving Dick by himself, curled up in a blanket like a burrito. Dick can hear him rifling in the kitchen. “Last time I got something from IKEA, you, Bruce, and I spent three days trying to put together a desk that fell apart the moment I set my book down on top of it.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “It didn’t just  _fall apart,”_  he murmurs under his breath. Unfortunately, Jason can still hear him.

“Yes, it did!” Jason yells from the kitchen. “And if you try to buy something else from IKEA I’ll punch  _that_ , too!”

“Then  _you_  get me a new table!” Dick yells back, regretting it about two seconds later when a cough rips itself free from his chest. He spends a good minute trying to catch his breath, and by the end of it, Jason’s back in the living room, standing at the end of the couch as he looks down at Dick. There’s a bowl in his hand.

“Yikes,” Jason says, handing over the bowl. “You’re lucky I’m here.”

“You punched a hole in my table.”

“I could’ve punched a hole in  _you,_  instead _.”_

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” Dick tells him, taking the bowl anyways. There’s a delicious smell coming from the bowl, and to Dick’s utter delight, it’s  _soup._  Even better, it’s  _Jason’s_  soup, which has him flipping his mood pretty quickly.

Jason’s probably right in saying that Dick’s lucky he’s here. He’d been sick almost three days, dehydrated and coughing and out of energy by the time Jason broke into his apartment to check on him (Alfred’s orders, Jason had said, but Dick wonders). One look at Dick, and Jason had started yelling at Dick. And Dick, not in the best of mood, had started yelling back. About five minutes into the argument, Jason had growled, punched his fist into Dick’s already dinky table, and started taking care of Dick.

Dick had let him, and once he’d been wrapped up in a few blankets and then took some medicine, Dick’s mood had lightened a bit, and Jason’s followed a little after, until Dick had started to complain about his table being ruined.

Jason had muttered under his breath, “ _I’ll just get you a new one, you Dickface.”_

Dick smiles at Jason as he sips his soup. It’s as delicious as he remembers. “Thanks for checking up on me, Jay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason sighs, flopping back onto the couch next to him again. “Just don’t make me punch something  _else_  in this place. I’m pretty sure the next thing I’m going to go for is the wall.”

Dick snickers. “Well, there’d go my deposit.”

“Then don’t get sick, you moron.”

“No promises.” Dick coughs lightly.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll leave you to Alfred’s and Damian’s combined mercy, then. You’ll be calling me within twenty minutes.”

Dick hums and smiles. He doesn’t feel like complete crap anymore, and it could be the medicine and soup, but Dick likes to think a sibling visiting him can be just as helpful as a doctor. Maybe even more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> laquilasse asked: “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.” BROOSE AND DICK,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Bruce comes back in Batman and Robin. Like pretty much _right_ after Dick’s surgery.

He feels like he’s dying. His chest is tight and painful, and his lungs catch after every breath. There are tears falling down his cheeks, and fingers that aren’t his wipe them away. More fingers brush his hair back from his forehead. It takes a painfully long time for his eyes to focus long enough to take in the person who is kneeling in front of him.

“I—” he starts to say, but his voice splutters out and his vision grows blurry again. He blinks the new tears away, and the diligent fingers wipe them from his cheeks. The fingers disappear and calloused hands take their place, cupping his face and holding it tightly. 

And Dick can only stare ahead and try to process the storm tearing apart his very soul. He feels decades old, even though it’s only been a few years since he’d turned twenty. He feels ancient and exhausted and terrified. Full to the brim with fear that he doesn’t comprehend.

Because he should feel happy, right? He shouldn’t be falling apart anymore. Not now that—

A sob rips itself from his chest, and then they don’t stop. His shoulders shake, and his face crumples, and his own hands find the ones still cupping his face, and he doesn’t  _understand_.

“Bruce,” he whispers, his voice thick with grief and tears. “ _Bruce.”_

Bruce hushes him softly, his thumbs caressing skin underneath Dick’s eyes, his blue eyes drinking Dick’s face in. “I’m here, Dick.”

It’s impossible. Tim had  _said_ , and he had vague memories of Bruce showing up at the last moment to save their asses, but Dick had all but given up hope by then. It could just be that the bullet wound in the back of Dick’s head had killed him after all, and this is Bruce in whatever afterlife there is, ready to greet Dick and bring him with.

But if Dick’s dead, then that means he’s left everybody else to pick up the pieces again. That both him and Bruce have left the family behind, and Dick doesn’t know how to deal with that. Damian will have no reason to stay in Gotham anymore. Alfred, Tim, Jason, Cass, Steph, Babs, his friends and family. He left them behind to start all over  _again_. Just like Bruce had.

But if this is life—if this is reality—why does it feel like he’s hurting so much it’ll kill him? Should Dick be happy to see his dad? Shouldn’t he be relieved? Why does he feel like his heart could rip into two? Why does he feel like he could shatter into a million pieces and never be able to put himself back together again?

Impossibly, he sobs harder.

And it’s then that Bruce finally lets his hands slide away from Dick’s face, and he pulls Dick forward into an embrace, and Bruce just holds him as Dick buries his face into his dad’s chest. There are fingers carding through his hair, careful of the bandage and stitches. Bruce is still hushing him softly.

The sit like that for what feels like hours.

Finally, Bruce pulls away. Dick’s still crying, and Bruce’s eyes are impossibly old and sad as they take in Dick’s expression. Dick thinks that he sees the heartbreak as plain on Bruce’s face as he feels it in his own heart.

After a long moment, Bruce says, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here for you. I’m sorry you had to be—” he falters.

Dick shakes his head, and lets it fall forward into Bruce’s shoulder. He can’t speak.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I really am,” and Bruce whispers it, like it’s a deep dark secret he’s been holding in for years. “But I really just need to see you smile right now. I’ve missed you.”

Dick feels like he’s dying. He feels old and sad and tired and terrified of every single emotion roaring through his veins. Terrified that this isn’t real. Terrified that it  _is._  And Bruce wants him to smile, like  _he’s_  the one that’s scared that this isn’t real. Like seeing Dick’s smile will put the final piece in place.

So Dick makes himself snort into Bruce’s shoulder, and wraps his arms around his dad’s neck and pulls himself in impossibly tighter. Bruce doesn’t deny him. He holds him close, and Dick forces himself to say, “It figures that you’d come back just to see me  _smile._ ”

And after a moment, he pulls back, and gives Bruce his best shot at a smile, wiping away his own tears for the first time tonight. The smile’s watery, and it doesn’t help his singing emotions, but Bruce’s shoulders slump slightly. And Dick doesn’t tell Bruce of the empty nights spent alone in the master bedroom of the penthouse, of the hard days trying to fill Bruce’s footsteps, of the impossibly weeks of exhaustion as he tries to juggle between playing the role of Batman, Damian’s guardian, and Richard Grayson, never having anytime to settle himself down and just be  _Dick Grayson_.

Instead, he falls forward again, and lets himself just hold Bruce, and Bruce just holds him. They sit like that for hours, until Dick finally can’t take it anymore, and he lets himself drift off into a fitful sleep.

Bruce is home, but Dick doesn’t feel like the piece Bruce took with him when he left them has fit back into place. If anything, Dick feels less like himself than he ever has, and he doesn’t understand  _why._

He doesn’t think he ever will.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: How about something really bad happens to Damian and we see Jason feeling guilty and then there’s Dick who’s really afraid for his little brother’s life but wants to make sure Jason is ok as well after that fight/ accident?

“I think,” Dick says, plopping down next to where Jason’s spread eagle on the Cave’s training mats, “that you owe Bruce a new punching bag.”

Jason snorts. “Bruce is rich enough to buy ten billion punching bags. I don’t owe him shit.”

Dick shrugs and watches Jason’s face. “Bruce might not agree. You did punch it to death.”

Jason’s silent, then. He stares at the ceiling with dull, green eyes. His shirt is damp with sweat from working out so long, but Dick knows that the dark circles underneath his his eyes have nothing to do with the severe training Jason had subjected himself to and everything to do with the kid that’s lying in the medbay just a little ways away.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dick says softly. 

Jason shoots him a withering glare, and Dick meets it evenly. It had been touch and go for a while, and Dick thought he’d been about to lose his mind when Damian wouldn’t wake up after a couple hours, but Dick trusted Leslie’s diagnosis. He trusted when she said that Damian was out of the woods.

“Why are you here?” Jason asks. 

He sounds miserable, and Dick’s heart reminds him that it doesn’t just ache for the little brother who was stabbed, but also for the little brother who made a mistake and was too caught up in his own guilt and anger to process his own emotions.

“Damian will be okay,” Dick says again. It’s barely louder than a whisper, but he knows Jason hears him by Jason’s thinning lips. “But you have to know that it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t paying attention.” The words are accusing. Full of shame and guilt and self-hatred. Jason continues, “I wasn’t paying attention, and the little brat ended up with a knife in his stomach.”

“People make mistakes.”

“Not us.”

“Yes,” Dick says. “Us.”

Jason’’s eyes burn with another spark of anger. This time it’s directed at Dick, not at himself, and Dick takes it all as it comes. “Not. Us. We can’t afford to make these kinds of–”

“You sound like Bruce,” Dick cuts in, irritably, and that shuts Jason right up. “And like I’d tell Bruce,  _yes._  We do make mistakes. You have no idea how many mistakes I made when it was just Damian and I. You have no idea how many I made when it was just  _me.”_

He holds Jason’s gaze for a moment longer, but Jason’s fallen uncomfortably silent, and he doesn’t look like he’s ready to say anything. Or maybe he doesn’t know  _what_  to say.

So Dick keeps going.

“Bruce tried it alone once,” Dick says, “and look where that got him. He does things alone, he almost gets killed half a dozen times over. And the more of us there are, the better chance we all stand of not getting hurt. We watch each other’s backs because we’re all human, and we know that we’re going to make mistakes.”

“I was sloppy,” Jason tells him, unhappily.

“You were tired,” Dick corrects. “And Damian wasn’t. So he stepped in where you couldn’t. I–I wish he’d done it a different way, but I know I’d probably have done the same thing. So I don’t blame him. And I don’t blame you, either.”

Jason snorts again, but it’s more self-deprecating than anything. “I almost got the kid killed, Dick.”

“So don’t go out tired again,” Dick says. “That’s all I can tell you, other than repeat that this isn’t your fault.” Jason closes his eyes, and Dick can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder and just sit there. Jason doesn’t shrug him off, so he guesses this is okay. “Sleep, and talk to Bruce when you get a chance.”

“Me talking to Bruce won’t achieve anything, you dickhead,” Jason tells him, but his words lack his usual amusement. They’re too flat. Too automatic.

“I’m not forcing you.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Dick sighs. Jason’s too caught up in his own head and feelings, and he knows Jason needs time to settle himself–maybe burn off some of those emotions–before he’ll be willing to listen to anything else Dick has to say.

And Dick thinks that’s somewhat alright. Dick’s tired, too. Exhausted. He hadn’t been stabbed, but he sort of feels like he has in an odd way. When things like this happen, when things go to hell, sometimes Dick feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, watching his family metaphorically fall away from his reach until there’s nothing Dick can do but reach his fingers out uselessly and wait.

So, he gets to his feet.

Reaches out his fingers. Says to Jason, “I’ll be with Damian if you need me. I’ll text you when he wakes up.”

And he prepares himself to wait.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Alfred discuss some important documents. Dick has a freak out. Alfred is once again the support the batfamily will always need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Hi! If Dick ended up adopting Damian before Bruce's return how would he break it to Bruce?
> 
> So I got this, and decided to write the complete opposite. Have Dick freaking out over whether or not to adopt Damian.

When Alfred finds Dick, he’s in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed with his hands clasped in front of him as he leans over his knees. He’s staring at the floor with a dazed, distant look, and Alfred hates the small pit of worry that grows in his stomach at the sight of the man he’d helped raise.

“Master Dick?” he calls, keeping his voice quiet so as not to startle him. Dick sucks in a breath and blinks slowly up at Alfred. The butler holds Dick’s gaze. “Is there something wrong?”

Dick stares at Alfred a little longer, and the longer he stays silent, the more worried Alfred becomes. Finally, Dick says, “Is this how Bruce felt?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

Dick gestures vaguely to the bedside table where a pile of papers is stacked haphazardly. Alfred can’t read the words on top, but he recognizes the document. He’d helped Bruce through four, after all.

“I see,” Alfred says, his eyes lingering on the forms. “Then you went through with it after all?”

But Dick shakes his head, before he hides his face in his hands. His next words are muffled. “What am I gonna do, Alfie? I can’t go through with this. I can’t—I’ve already taken Batman and Gotham and driven away Tim and Cass and Steph and the entire Justice League. I’m making a mess of his life, and I can’t—”

Dick hesitates, his hands slowly falling back into his lap. “I can’t take Damian and make a mess of him, too.”

“Master Dick,” Alfred starts, “I believe that you are in no way, shape, or form ‘making a mess’ of Master Bruce’s life. You’re trying your best to balance what he left behind, but this should not be your responsibility.”

“But it has to be,” Dick says solemnly. “You know it does.”

“And I regret that it must,” Alfred continues. “However, just because you are doing things your way instead of his does not mean that you are doing anything wrong.”

Dick’s on his feet in moments. “But I’m not doing it right!”

Alfred shakes his head. “You are simply doing it different. Master Damian knows it, as do I, and we both support you as Batman. We support the change you bring, Dick, even if you doubt yourself.”

Dick runs a hand down his face, past the worry lines digging their way into Dick’s forehead and the shadows underneath those bright, blue eyes. Alfred wishes with all his heart that he could swiftly take away the hurts this young man in front of him is feeling, but Alfred has never been any good at that. He’s not Dick’s father, and all he can do is support the lad until his legs give out from underneath him. Just like he had with Master Bruce and all of the wonderful children that have come into his care throughout the years.

“I can’t adopt Damian,” Dick says after a few long seconds of silence. “He’s Bruce’s son, and I won’t take him from his dad.”

Alfred sighs. “You asked earlier whether Master Bruce felt this way.” Alfred steps forward and lays a gentle hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I assure you, had the Batman not been quivering at the prospect of seeming like he was trying to replace your father, he might have adopted you some five or six years earlier.”

Dick blinks at that. Opens his mouth. Closes it. It appears Alfred had caught him off guard with that answer.

Alfred continues, “I will give you the advice he would not heed: All you need to do is ask Master Damian.”

“But—what about Elliot? And the fact that people still think Bruce is alive? And Tim?” Dick’s voice drops into a whisper. “Oh god, what am I going to do about Tim?”

“If Master Damian agrees, we can think about solutions to those situations,” Alfred tells him as gently as he can manage. “For now, I believe the first step in adopting anybody is to ask their permission.”

Dick nods and gives Alfred a smile—albeit, a small one tinged with anxiety and other emotions Alfred can’t quite identify. Alfred squeezes Dick’s shoulder before he lets go and steps back.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick says.

“Anytime, Master Dick.”

It’s a shame and a comfort, however, that Dick doesn’t take Alfred up on his advice, either, because it’s only a few weeks later that they have evidence of Bruce being alive. And Alfred thinks the equal amounts of disappointment and relief on Dick’s face as he throws the adoption forms into the bin for Alfred to shred is one of the most heart-wrenching things that Alfred believes he’s seen in his long life.

Neither Dick nor Alfred speak of the situation ever again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> caramelmachete asked: Dick and Wally - 20, 33 or 67
> 
> 67\. “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

For once, it isn’t Dick. 

He’s standing in the middle of his apartment living room, grocery bags still in his hands, and it’s only when he hears a shuffling noise that he freezes and looks up. And what does he look up to see? Wally. Leaning against the doorjamb to his bedroom. Left arm limp at his side as red drips from his fingers.

And for some goddamn reason, Dick’s first reaction isn’t to rush over to Wally. It isn’t to force Wally into the bathroom and onto the counter so he can cut away Wally’s Flash uniform and see what’s wrong underneath all the red. No, his first reaction is to open his big mouth and say, “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

Wally laughs. It’s breathless and quiet, but his eyes twinkle past all the exhaustion and pain. When all Dick does for the next ten seconds is  _stare_  at where Wally’s blood does indeed stain his carpet red, Wally clears his throat, and it’s only then that Dick meets his eyes again.

“You okay there, buddy?”

“Am  _I_  okay?” Dick asks, incredulous. Then he takes a sweeping glance around the room, determines it safe (he check thoroughly later, when he’s not  _this_  close to freaking out), and grabs Wally’s wrist. The good one. He leads Wally into the bathroom, and commands, “ _Sit,”_  to which Wally obeys with some exhausted babbling Dick can’t quite get himself to tune into and listen.

With Wally on the counter, Dick bends down to open the cabinets beneath for his first aid kit. It’s not likely that Wally will need many bandages--not like Dick usually needs. Wally heals too fast, and Dick’s too human sometimes.

But—Dick sets the kit on the counter and mechanically sifts through it for his scissors. The ones that can cut through even Kevlar—Wally’s human, too. Dick doesn’t understand why he’s so—

—his pulse in his ears, barely breathing, hands shaking, can’t focus, can’t focus, can’t  _focus._  Dammit, Grayson. Wally’s bleeding. Get your act together and  _help him_ —

—freaked out. He’s freaked out by the fact that he’d walked into his apartment to find Wally leaning heavily against the doorjamb,  _bleeding_ , and it’s like something inside Dick had just broken. The same thing that breaks every time Bruce, Tim, Jason, Steph, Cass,  _Damian_ —the same thing that breaks in him every time his family gets hurt and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Dick plants his trembling hands on the counter. The scissors are lost to the kit, and Dick’s lost to his own mind. The counter is blurring slightly, and Dick is having the hardest time doing something simple as  _breathing._  He can hear Wally talking still, but the tone is different. He still doesn’t understand what Wally’s saying, but he knows it’s being said to  _him._

 _“Dick.”_ Wally’s voice finally gets through, and it’s accompanied by a clumsy slap to the back of his head. Dick startles and looks up, blinking away the blurriness and meeting Wally’s concerned gaze. “Dude, you alright? You’re shaking.”

“Fine,” Dick breathes, diving back into the kit. He grabs the scissors within seconds and gets to work. He distances himself. He lets himself get lost in helping, and Wally doesn’t push.

He usually pushes.

The wound isn’t bad. Maybe it had been a couple hours ago, but now? Wally’s going to be just fine. His super healing doing most of the work, and all Dick has left to do is clean it and wind some gauze around the cut on Wally’s arm. It’s far from the worst Dick’s ever seen, and Wally just seems tired more than anything else. Maybe this isn’t a wound thing, then. Maybe this is an emotional thing.

So, Dick’s probably going to be useless, then.

When he’s done bandaging, Dick steps back and leans back against the wall. He stares at Wally for a moment, watching his best friend’s face scrunch up under the scrutiny.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Wally asks. “It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”

“I know,” Dick says quietly.

Wally blinks. “Then are you looking at me like you look at Damian when he’s hurt so badly you don’t know if he’s going to make it through.”

Dick licks his lips and shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. All he knows is that he’s tired and exhausted and there’s this lingering fear settling in his stomach and in his lungs, and it’s taking ahold of him. The worst part is that it’s  _building up,_  and Dick knows himself well enough to know it’ll explode soon if he doesn’t do something.

He just doesn’t want it to explode while Wally’s here with him. Not now, when Wally’s come to him. When he should be doing his best to be the best friend Wally’s always been for him.

“Dick,” Wally says, and it’s soft and gentle and a million other things Dick doesn’t know if he deserves right now. It makes Dick want to cry, and then his throat gets tight just to prove that he actually just might. “Hey man, are you okay? You’ve barely said a word since you got home.”

Dick shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m just—”

Just what? He doesn’t know. It’s like he  _never_  knows.

Wally hops down from the counter, looking just a bit more energized. There’s a granola bar wrapper right next to the sink that Dick hadn’t noticed until just now, and Dick’s not altogether unsurprised when Wally just wraps his arms around Dick and holds him.

“I think it’s been a shitty night for the both of us, huh?” 

Dick nods and doesn’t cry. It’s a near thing. Instead, he brings his own arms up to wrap around his best friend in a hug. Something inside him that’s been wound up tight for longer than just tonight finally loosen, and he thinks about how much of a relief to be able to just sink into Wally’s warm presence and gather himself for a few minutes.

Wally only lets him go only after a long time, and Dick finally feels like he’s got some sort of handhold back that Wally’s abrupt appearance had shaken him from.

“So,” Wally says. His face still screams exhaustion, but the grin on his face is genuine. “How about we grab some food and put on a movie.”

Dick almost goes for it, but he shoots Wally a look. “I have some leftover chocolate chip pancakes in the freezer I’ve been saving for a rainy day. We’ll need to make syrup since I don’t have any, and probably cut some fruit up, but breakfast for dinner doesn’t sound so bad,” Dick says. It’s an offer to stay and talk and just be all wrapped up in one, and Dick hopes Wally’s willing to take it.

And, of course, Wally does. “Sounds like a plan.”

Dick tries not to let his smile get too wide, but that’s a little impossible with Wally West around.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: How about Dick being scared because Babs won't wake up after being injured in a mission!
> 
> Includes some Dick being a dad

“When’s mom coming home?”

Dick smiles down the best he can at the eight year old sitting in his lap, and, with a cheer he can barely muster, he says, “Mom will be back in a few days.”

Then, because Mary’s frowning up at him like she knows he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying–there’s no doubt about her inheriting her mother’s intuition–Dick teases, “What? Is hanging out with daddy no fun, now? You weren’t thinking that a couple hours ago when I let you have those donuts.”

Mary’s frown doesn’t let up, though. Instead, she wraps her arms around Dick’s neck and hides her face in the crook. When she speaks, her words are muffled. “Something’s going on. Something you don’t want me to know.”

Dick doesn’t sigh. Maybe if this were ten years earlier. If he hadn’t gone and married Barbara and helped raise three beautiful children. Maybe if he were a little less experienced at this parenting thing (which is bullshit. He really has an appreciation for Bruce, because sometimes he has no idea what he’s doing when it comes to Mary and the twins).

But it’s not. So he doesn’t sigh. And if he had, he knows Mary would have been on him immediately, and there’d be no way that he would be able to keep anything from her. To keep her from getting hurt with the information that’s stabbing him in the chest repeatedly.

The information that Barbara’s injured and he can’t be by her side at this very moment. Both Bruce and Tim had told him to stay with Mary and the twins, and Tim had added that Jason was coming over as soon as possible. So he understood, that he had to wait. Had to stay with the kids. Couldn’t do anything stupid.

And again, maybe if this were ten years ago, he would have tossed that idea right out the window. But he’s got his kids to look after, too. So all he can do is just sit here and stir in frustration while he waits for Jason to get here and tell him what’s going on besides a stupid text from Bruce saying, “Barbara’s injured. Stay with the kids.”

“Maybe,” Dick says after a long moment of quiet. He smooths down Mary’s dark hair with one hand, and with the other, he pulls her impossibly closer. His daughter, a light in his life. Sweet and loving and wickedly smart. Smart enough that Dick knows he won’t be able to get away with lying to her. “Uncle Jay’s coming over to clear things up, and we’ll see if something’s going on then. Okay?”

Mary nods, her arms curling tighter around his neck, and Dick hates that all he can do is hold her. If he could spare her pain, he would. In a heartbeat. But Mary’s also really good at reading people, and he knows she’ll hurt if Dick hurts. So, he tries to do what he does best. He tries to look at the bright side of things.

Barbara’s hurt, but Mary’s okay, and the twins are in the next room napping. Bruce and Tim are being cryptic, but Jason’s coming over to explain things. Dick’s feet are itching to run, jump, fly, but he has a home here and family that need him, and he can always be strong for them.

So, he holds Mary in his arms. Right now, that’s the best he can do.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> laquilasse asked: “Show me what’s behind your back.” dick and damian and/or jason <3

It’s almost casual the way Dick spins around and leans back against the counter when Jason walks into the kitchen. In fact, it’s _too_ almost casual for it to be believable, and Jason narrows in on the fact that he can’t see Dick’s hands at all.

And knowing his older brother, Jason knows that whatever’s going on spells trouble for someone in the manor. Probably _him._ And goddammit if he’s not going to put a stop to it before it can get out of hand.

“Hey, Jason,” Dick says, placating smile already in place.

“Hey, yourself.” Jason stays on the other side of the island. “Whatcha got there?”

Dick’s smile goes wooden, and Jason’s inner alarms go off. It’s not Dick’s usual troublemaker grin that pulls up his lips when there’s a prank to be had. There’s no spark in his eye. Jason’s focus narrows in on the shadows growing underneath Dick’s eyes.

Whatever Dick’s hiding, it probably doesn’t have anything to do with a prank, and by all rights and purposes, Jason should probably just stay out of it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he stops over to his older brother and demands, “Show me what’s behind your back.”

Dick’s smile falls. His face goes blank as he stares into Jason’s eyes. Jason doesn’t back down, irritation rearing its ugly head and morphing into stubbornness. Jason holds out a hand just to be petty.

Dick sighs. Says, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” and brings his hands out from behind his back.

Jason hisses out a curse and gingerly grabs a hold of Dick’s right hand. It’s damaged to hell and back, mottled blue, green, and purple. Bruised, swollen. Scrapes that are still bleeding. God, Jason thinks that some of the knuckles might even be broken. Fingers definitely are. The left hand looks only marginally better.

“What the hell did you _do?”_ Jason wonders, eyes stuck on the broken hands in front of him. “You do realize you won’t be able to get on the bars for days, right? Maybe even _weeks.”_

 _“_ Yeah,” Dick says, his voice a sad, defeated thing. It gives Jason pause enough to look up. Dick’s staring at his eyes, too. His expression is still far too blank, but it’s probably a defense mechanism for—for _whatever_ this is that’s happening. Fuck if Jason knows, but it isn’t normal. Dick meets his eyes after another moment. “I know.”

“What the hell, Dick?” Jason asks. Because this hadn’t been an accident or an injury. It looks like Dick took his fists to a brick wall and didn’t stop until he’d punched his skin away to the bone. “You’re an idiot, you know that? _”_

Dick doesn’t say anything to that, though, and after a moment, Jason’s done waiting. He releases Dick’s hand and grabs his wrist instead. Tugs Dick out of the kitchen and into the nearest bathroom. He grabs the medkit from underneath the skin and gestures to the counter.

“Sit.”

It’s not a suggestion. Dick complies without protest, and Jason gets to work cleaning out the bleeding scrapes. He dresses Dick’s hand, and quiet fills the bathroom. The air is tensed. Charged. And hell if Jason is going to be the one to brave the silence and yell at Dick. He’s not Bruce. He’s done stupid stuff before. He’s been an idiot, too. Besides, Jason’s not Dick’s therapist. He’s not here to fix Dick’s problems.

(Though, he supposes that raises the question of why Jason _is_ here.)

“I was angry,” Dick says softly, after a few minutes.

“I can see that.”

“It was stupid.”

“It was.”

More quiet. And then—

“I just wanted to _stop._ ” Dick tells him, his voice cracking at the end. He sounds like he’s seconds away from tears, and when Jason slams the lid of the kit shut after he finishes wrapping Dick’s hands, he looks up.

And then double takes, because Dick looks _furious._ His eyes are bright, his lip is trembling, but so are his hands now. He’s looks like he wants to start beating on the wall again, and then collapse on the floor and cry. Or maybe both at the same time.

And Jason—well. He’s completely unprepared for _any_ of this. Dick looks _wrecked,_ and Jason’s the last person that Dick probably needs to help him.

But Jason’s not going to just leave him like this. Not when Jason remembers every single day of his life what it feels like to be that angry. So, instead of walking out of the bathroom, and then the manor, instead of leaving someone else like Bruce or Tim to deal with this crap, Jason shoves the kit into the cabinet under the sink again and hops onto the counter next to the person who’s supposed to be his unwavering, perfect big brother that he can resent and dislike until he’s satisfied.

“You just wanted to stop what?” Jason asks, clasping his hands in front of him and staring at the floor. He gives Dick his space to express his emotions without Jason’s watchful eye. He feels a bit calmer now, for some reason. “Was it Bruce? Did you two fight again?”

Jason remembers the epic fights between Dick and Bruce from his first years at the manor. He remembers the way he’d once come into the kitchen in the middle of the night and had caught Dick breaking down on the kitchen floor, Alfred crouching down next to him, murmuring to him. He remembers the way Dick had never been able to stay longer than a few days before the strain in Bruce’s and Dick’s relationship had caused the man to run again.

He remembers a lot of things, but he doesn’t remember ever _helping_ Dick after.

It’s new territory for both of them, Jason supposes.

“It’s not Bruce,” Dick whispers. “It’s—I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“Evidently,” Jason says, swinging a glare in Dick’s direction, “it does. And if you don’t want to tell me, just say so, because I’m not going to sit here and listen to bullshit, Dickface.”

Dick doesn’t meet his eyes. His shoulders tense up, though, and his eyes flick across his face, so Jason knows Dick’s listening. He licks his lips, and then says the absolute last thing Jason expects.

“Bruce is going out of town tomorrow.”

Jason blinks. “So?”

Dick closes his eyes, facing forward again. He runs a bandaged hand through his hair. “He’s going to be gone for almost a month.”

“Get to the point, Dick,” Jason tells him.

“I agreed to be Batman while he’s gone.”

The words are quiet, tinged with an edge of terror and fury, and Jason honestly doesn’t even know where to start unpacking that statement. Everyone knows Dick’s aversion to wearing the cowl. After wearing it for a year while Bruce was stuck in time or whatever the heck he was doing when they all thought he was dead, it wasn’t hard to see that Dick hated being Batman for more than a night.

And a full _month._ Yikes.

“Did he ask you or tell you?”

Dick shoots Jason an annoyed look. “He asked. Said we could figure something else out if I didn’t want to.”

“So wait, you said _yes?_ ” Jason splutters, leaning forward to get a better look at Dick’s face. “Dick, Bruce hasn’t even left yet and you’re a mess.”

Dick presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck off, Jason.” His words lack any real heat, though.

“Yeah, how about no,” Jason says. “You just sabotaged yourself.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I do it a lot,” Dick snaps, dropping his hands. “If it hadn’t been for Damian last time—”

Dick cuts himself off, but Jason can guess the end of _that_ statement pretty easily.

“So where’s the brat now?” Jason can’t help but ask.

Sighing again, Dick deflates. “He’s staying with the Kents for the next two weeks. Him and Jon are working on something, I guess. After that, he’s going back to the Teen Titans.”

“Does he even _know_ that Bruce is leaving? Were _any_ of us going to know until he was already gone?”

“Probably not,” Dick admits. “Damian’s never really here anymore.”

“And you miss him,” Jason realizes. “You’re like this because you agreed to be Batman without Damian.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but his stricken expression is all the answer Jason needs.

He needs to put a stop to this, Jason realizes. _Jason_ , probably the epitome of _doing whatever the fuck I want,_ is going to give advice to Mr. Golden Boy. Fuck, if this isn’t the weirdest day Jason’s ever had. But Dick looks so goddamn _miserable_ that Jason can’t help but blow out a breath.

“Just tell the kid to come home,” Jason tells him.

Dick blinks at him. “You mean Damian?”

“No, I mean Superboy. _Yes._ I mean Damian,” Jason says. “If you need him to come home, I’m sure he will. You’re the only one he actually _likes_ , Dickhead. That kid would probably take on the Justice League for you.”

“He likes—okay, well. He doesn’t _not_ like you guys,” Dick says. “And—"

“ _Dick._ Find the point I was actually trying to make. _”_

Dick smiles. It’s small and looks almost pitiful on Dick’s face compared to the grins Jason’s seen on his face before, but it still takes Jason kind of by surprise.

“What?” he asks.

Dick shrugs. “Bruce used to say that to me when I was a kid.”

“I’m pretty sure he said that to you yesterday,” Jason sighs. He leans back on his hands and blows out an exasperated breath. “Look, Dick. Just talk to the brat and ask him to come home for a while.”

Dick looks at him, that smile still on his face. “Home?”

“You’re a _dick_ , you know that?”

Dick finally— _finally—_ laughs. “I’ll call Damian. Thanks, Jason.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason says He feels kind of worn out and cranky. “And don’t mutilate your hands punching walls. Call Cass to spar, or something. It probably won’t hurt less, but at least you’ll still have the use of your hands. Probably.”

Dick hums, leaning into Jason. Jason, for once, lets him, and they sit like that for a while. Jason thinks, for the first time since seeing Dick’s hands, that maybe things are going to be okay.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> isi7140 asked: Prompt if you feel like it: Dick and Steph working together in the field?

“Heyyyy, Nightwing. Bats said you needed—oh god, is that blood?”

Steph can’t help but freeze in her tracks, as she stares at what is clearly a bullet wound in Dick’s arm. He’s got his hand pressing on it, but blood is still leaking through his fingers, and it takes a moment for Steph to snap out of her fascinated horror. She’s moving in seconds, crouching down next to where Dick’s partially hidden behind the nearest dumpster.

Even in the low light—hell, even with his mask on, Dick looks pretty far from okay. And Steph’s probably the last person Dick had thought would respond to his request for backup.

But she’s here, and despite what a lot of people think, she’s capable. If Dick were Jason or Damian, or heck, even Tim, she’d probably be told to get lost or something. And if Dick were anyone else, Steph would most definitely tell them to suck it.

But Dick is a big boy, and all he does when Steph crouches down, hands pulling a pressure bandage from a pouch, is smile at her.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” she says back, starting to dress the wound. 

He lets her work, and Steph  _hmms_  and  _hahs_  a little here and there, but otherwise says nothing. Dick doesn’t speak, either. Not until she pulls back with a sigh.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” he jokes. “Am I gonna live?”

Steph cracks her own grin and helps him to his feet, supporting him when he sways, and— _oof_ , is he heavy. Which she’s not actually surprised by. He’s probably pure muscle from spending all day on the trapeze and all night swinging from rooftop to rooftop.

“You’ve kind of lost a lot of blood,” Steph says honestly, as they awkwardly stagger to where Oracle had told Steph she had sent the car on standby. Literally all of twenty feet. Dick and Steph could make it out the alley and onto the street. Probably. “And you were sitting next to a dumpster, so. Gotta clean that out when we get back, I think. Other than that, it looked okay? It might help if you got a second opinion, though. I’m not exactly an expert here.”

Dick huffs a breathless laugh. “I trust you.”

“I actually think that might be a horrible idea,” Steph says. They finally make it out of the alley, and— _there._  The batmobile in all its stupid, awesome glory. “There was this one time I was  _super_  mad at your little brother, so I switched all of his spices around. He ended up putting sprinkles on his spaghetti.”

“I would—” Dick grunts, “—pay good money for a picture of his face.”

“Lucky for you, I filmed it,” Steph says, wicked smirk on her face. 

She helps Dick into the passenger seat and hops into the front seat. It starts up automatically, without a word from either of them, and they both sit back and let the autopilot bring them back to the Cave.

Dick looks worse, she notes, and Steph bites her lip. His face is pale, expression scrunched up in pain, hand over the pressure bandage. She’s seen Dick hurt plenty of times before, but for some reason, it’s a lot weirder this time.

Maybe it’s because she’s the only one here.

“How are you feeling?” she asks for lack of anything better talk about.

Dick gives her a one-shouldered shrug. “Honestly? Probably worse than I’m trying to convince myself I am. But I’m not dying, so better than I could be?”

“Not dying is a lot better than a lot of people in this family,” Steph tells him.

Dick chuckles again. He sounds exhausted. “That’s true. Don’t say that to Bruce.”

“Yeah, I don’t need another reason for Bruce to ban me from movie night.”

“What was the first reason?” Dick wonders, looking over at her curiously.

Steph grins, waggling her eyebrows. “Tim taught me how to hack into the Cave’s computer. So whenever Bruce got a message, he got a ten second clip of Beyoncé. It took him like twenty minutes to fix it.”

Dick bursts into laughter, and Steph joins him barely a few seconds later. It  _had_  been pretty funny, and Steph hadn’t even minded the furious glare thrown her way when Superman had messaged him and  _Halo_  started playing.

“Oh I hope you got that on video, too.”

Steph winks. “Tim’s got the copies hidden away safely.”

Dick’s still chuckling by the time the batmobile pulls into the Cave. And even when Steph helps him out of the car and over to the medbay where Alfred’s waiting on standby. There’s no one else in the Cave, so he’s the only one to raise an eyebrow in question to the smiles on their faces.

“I assume that the two of you aren’t laughing about Master Dick’s wound.” It’s not a question, but Steph takes it as an invitation.

“I’m a prank  _expert,”_ she tells Alfred, as serious as she can sound without giving into the laughter still bubbling up inside her. Dick hops onto the nearest cot with her and Alfred’s help. “I was just telling our dearest Dick about my exploits.”

“I see,” Alfred says. He’s got this twinkle in his eyes that promises a good story. He brings over a crash cart and begins working on patching Dick up. “Perhaps Master Dick, as a fellow  _prank expert,_ can give you a few tips.”

Steph swivels her gaze to Dick, and he flashes her a grin. Exhausted as it is, it’s also a promise.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I snuck a turkey into the manor?”

“What?  _No._  You absolutely did not.” Steph hops up next to Dick. “Spill, Grayson. I need every detail.”

Dick does tell her the story of how he’d successfully hidden a turkey from Bruce— _Bruce freaking Wayne—_ for two full days, and by the time someone—of course it’s Bruce—comes to check on them, Dick is completely patched up, and Steph can’t breathe from how hard she’s laughing.

All in all, it’s a good night, and Steph thinks she sees a team up in her future.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rosevered asked: yay, prompts open ;) Please "I just want to be numb, I don't want to feel anything" Dick or Tim

It seems like Dick is cursed. Cursed to constantly  _lose._  His parents, Jason, Bruce, Damian. He’s always giving up his family and his life and trying to move forward from  _another_  death, and it’s getting old.

And now it’s Tim. Now Tim’s the one who’s gone. Dead. And Dick’s left with another broken family. Another memorial. Another dead loved one he has to try and move past. 

He stares at the picture of the two of them on the hiking trip they’d taken right before everything had really gone to hell. Before Bruce had gotten lost in time. Before Dick had become Batman, stepped into a dead man’s life, and fucked everything up. Not everything had been good, but it had been better. Dick didn’t feel so goddamn messed up inside. Not like he does now.

He can feel himself cracking, his composure falling apart as he stares and wishes and  _hurts._  It hurts so goddamn much, because this is number  _three._  This is the third little brother he’s lost, and that means he’s lost all of them at some point or another. And he wants nothing more than for the hurt to go away. For Tim to magically reappear and tell him that it was all a joke.

That doesn’t happen. The hurt stays, and Tim doesn’t come back.

Dick drops his face into his knees and curls up the best he can while he’s crammed into the space between his desk and bookshelf.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door, and Dick doesn’t have time to even move before it’s swinging open and Bruce’s voice washes over him. “Dick, there’s—”

Dick stays where he is, curling up even tighter. He doesn’t want to deal with Bruce right now. He doesn’t want to deal with  _anybody._  He doesn’t want to put on a smile for the sake of others, or tell them that  _yes he is fine_ and  _no he doesn’t need to talk to anyone_ , because in the end, they’re all dealing with the same thing, aren’t they? Tim’s death didn’t just affect Dick, it affected  _all of them._  And they don’t need to hear Dick say that he’s hurting when they’re hurting, too.

“Dick?” Bruce asks. He doesn’t come any closer. It’s a question.  _Am I allowed to come over there?_

Dick bites down on the  _go away_  that immediately rises to his tongue, and instead makes himself breathe. The first breath is shaky, but the second one is steadier, and finally, when he doesn’t feel like he’ll shake apart with a single word, he says, “Yeah.”

There are footsteps, muted from the carpet, and then Dick can practically feel when Bruce crouches down in front of him. There’s a soft clink as the picture frame Dick had set in front of him is moved carefully to the side.

“Do you want to come out?” Bruce asks.

Not  _are you okay,_  or  _do you need a hug_ , because this is about control to Bruce. He’s testing his limits, and he’s allowing Dick to command the playing field as he wants. The tactic is familiar, and Dick finds a little bit of tension falling from his shoulders.

There’s a long moment of quiet, and Dick debates. Because  _does_  he want to come out from where’s he crammed in between two pieces of furniture? He feels trapped and small in here, but he thinks that if were to come out, he would only want to run away from all of this. And he knows escaping will only make it worse in the long run.

“No,” Dick finally whispers. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to  _feel_  like this. But he does. He does. He repeats, “No.”

“Alright,” Bruce says easily, and for all that he’s terrible at dealing with his own emotions, this is something he’s always been good at—dealing with Dick’s breakdowns. Dealing with Dick. Even when he was bad at it, it was only because his emotions got in the way. “Can I touch you?”

Dick swallows. “Yeah.”

Bruce hums, and Dick can feel when he shifts closer, laying a hand on the top of Dick’s hair and just leaving it there as a weight. It’s awkward and weird but it’s so  _Bruce._ And if Tim were still here, they’d both laugh over it later, when Dick’s not feeling like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders.

But Tim’s not here. And that’s exactly the problem.

Dick’s crying, then. There’s a lump in his throat and his eyes burn, and then his shoulders are shaking with the force of his sobs. Bruce’s hand leaves his head, moving down to grip around his arm instead. Bruce lightly tugs on him, and if Dick wanted to, he could resist. But he doesn’t. He lets Bruce pull him out of his hiding place and almost into his dad’s lap. There are warm arms curling around him, protecting him from the world. Bruce tucks Dick’s head under his chin, and Dick buries his face into Bruce’s chest.

The dam completely breaks then, and Dick’s  _yelling_  incomprehensibly as he sobs and cries and  _hurts._  It hurts so damn much. And the entire time, Bruce says nothing. He just holds Dick, rocks him back and forth, rubs a hand down Dick’s back and Dick screams and cries and rages at the cruel world for cursing him.

“Breathe,” Bruce says after a minute, and Dick realizes he’s gasping for breath. Damn near hyperventilating. “Breathe. Before you pass out.”

“It hurts,” Dick chokes. “It’s all so  _fucked up.”_

 _"_ Deeper breaths, Dick,” Bruce tells him, and only once Dick tries to comply at least twice does Bruce whisper, “I know. I know it is.”

“I’m tired of feeling like this,” Dick screams, pounding a light fist on Bruce’s chest. “I’m tired of hurting all the time. I’m tired of watching everyone around me  _die_. I  _hate it.”_

 _“_ I know, chum,” Bruce says, arms wrapping impossibly tighter around Dick. “I know.”

Dick cries and cries and  _cries_ , and it feels like hours before he calms down enough to stop. Bruce holds him through the entirety of it, and he’s  _there._ Just like he’s always,  _always_  there. And Dick hates that he’s sitting here shattering when Bruce is probably hurting just as much, if not  _more_.

It’s all fucked up. Eventually, Dick will have to accept the hurt and keep moving, just like he did for every other death thrown at him, but for now he stays in the comfort of his dad’s arms and wishes, impossibly, for everything to be okay again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bushy-haired-know-it-all asked: Prompt: Batman gets de-aged and the family/justice league has to deal with an angsty baby Bruce until they figure out how to fix it.

Dick wants to run. He wants to scream and cry and run far, far away from the manor, and at the same time, he knows he never will. And honestly, at this point, he  _can’t._  He can’t leave Alfred alone like this, when Jason, Barbara, and Tim have already made themselves scarce.

But,  _fuck_ does he want to run.

He stares at Bruce, and Bruce stares back at him, looking completely uninterested in anything but winning their impromptu staring contest. They’ve been doing this dance for over half an hour. The toys and art supplies on the table between them go untouched, and Dick honestly doesn’t know what else he can do to entertain him.

“I don’t know you.” Bruce says, like he’s figured something out. His eyes are sharp and intelligent, and Dick can tell he’s onto the something that Dick is refusing to tell him.

“No,” Dick says, his heart twisting sharply. He holds Bruce’s gaze, though. “You don’t.”

“Who are you?”

Dick doesn’t know how to answer. He keeps staring blankly at the kid who used to be  _his_  dad in lieu of actually responding. Bruce frowns. It pulls his brow down a certain way, and Dick can feel something in his chest  _snap_  with how many emotions overwhelm him in seconds, and Dick has to hold his breath, close his eyes, and cover his face with his hands in order to stop himself from shattering right then and there, in front of a seven year old Bruce who has no idea that his world will shatter in only a year.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks. He sounds troubled.

And who  _wouldn’t_  be. This is a kid, left alone with an adult he doesn’t know as said adult breaks down in front of him. God, Dick’s probably going to scare him at this rate.

“Fine,” Dick manages to choke out. “Fine.”

“You shouldn’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Bruce insists, and then there’s a noise, a chair scraping along the floor. Small hands gently tug at Dick’s own, and Dick lets Bruce pull them away from his face. He’s on Dick’s side of the table now, looking at Dick much more curiously. “Tell the truth?”

Dick swallows. “You just–you reminded me of my little brother. The way you–frowned.”

Bruce frowns again. “What happened to your brother?”

“He–” Dick’s breath catches in his chest. “He died. A few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, his brow furrowing again. 

He looks so much like  _Damian_ , and it hurts to look at him. For all that Damian looks a lot like Talia, there are instances during the time where they’d all thought Bruce was dead and Dick would only see Bruce, Bruce,  _Bruce._  And now he looks at Bruce, somehow turned into a child during a mission with the League, and all he can see is  _Damian._

 _God,_  it hurts.

Bruce doesn’t say,  _I’m sorry about your brother,_ though, and Dick thinks that that’s the only thing that’s stopping him from just wrapping his arms around Bruce and pulling him into an embrace.

Bruce probably wouldn’t tolerate that, anyways.

“Ahh, there you two are,” Alfred says, stepping into the informal dining room. He looks old and weary, maybe more than he had when Bruce had been declared dead, but that’s a hard estimate to make. “Thank you for watching Master Bruce while I was out with Timothy, Dick.”

He’s dropped the ‘Master’ since Bruce was dropped off on their doorstep like this, and Dick hasn’t figured out if he’s frustrated about it or not, yet.

“’Course,” Dick says, his voice only a little bit thick. Alfred pretends not to notice, and he appreciates it. “Any time.”

Bruce doesn’t let go of his hands, though. He’s frowning at Alfred, and his eyes flick back to Dick, flashing with realization. And then he’s looking at Alfred again, looking unhappy.

“You trust Dick,” Bruce says. It’s not a question.

Alfred answers anyways. He nods, and says, “I do.”

“Did you know his brother?”

Alfred goes tense. Rigid. His body is steel but his expression doesn’t change. Bruce seems to get his answer, though, and he squeezes Dick’s hand, turning to him.

“Alfred trusts you,” Bruce says softly. “And he knew your brother.”

“Yeah,” Dick says. He’s a little bewildered about where this is going.

“If it will make you feel better, I’ll show you the anthills in the garden in the backyard. Ants won’t replace your brother, but it’s a quiet place to be alone, and it always helps me not feel sad anymore.”

Dick startles, his eyes flicking to Alfred in wonderment. Alfred’s got this fond look on his face, though, and he’s not looking at Dick. He only has eyes for Bruce, and a lot of things slide into place.

“Sure,” Dick says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that, Bruce. Thanks.”

Bruce nods, lets go of Dick’s hand, and goes over to Alfred, taking his instead.

“Do you want to come with us?” Bruce asks.

Alfred smiles slightly. “Of course, Master Bruce. I’d never pass up the chance to visit the anthills.”

Days later, after Clark brings back an antidote for whatever made Bruce seven again, Dick is alone in the backyard, staring at the anthills while Bruce pours over file after file as he tries to find an impossible way to bring Damian back to life.

And Dick finds himself wanting to run again. His feet itch, and his eyes burn, and there’s more stabbing pain in his chest. But he doesn’t run, and he doesn’t cry. He just watches the ants go about their business, and he wishes that Bruce and Damian were next to him to watch them with him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: “Nothing is more important than you.” Dick and damian!

The winters in Gotham are a lot colder than Damian’s used to, especially the nights. He hates to admit it, but he might need to request that Pennyworth figure out how to better insulate his uniform. He thinks that it’s only the cape that’s keeping him from shivering at this point.

One look at Grayson—Batman— on the rooftop beside him reveals that it’s most likely only Damian dealing with this particular problem. Grayson is practically a statue, and nothing about his demeanor betrays whether he feels the bite of the wind as he whips past the two of them.

“Robin?” Batman asks, but it’s in Grayson’s voice. Damian grits his teeth, because Batman’s staring right at him, and there’s a certain tilt to the cowl that he knows means Grayson is concerned and wants Damian to speak up. And when he doesn’t, Grayson asks, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” is Damian’s automatic reply, and he clamps down on the sudden and ridiculous need to shiver. It’s not that cold. Colder than he’s used to, but he’s Robin, and he can last until he makes it back to the bunker.

Grayson stares at him for a little longer, and Damian refuses to back down, meeting Grayson’s stare and glaring back. Grayson quirks a smile, all of the sudden, and Damian scowls. Grayson’s _laughing_ at him.

“You wanna rephrase that, kiddo?”

“No.”

Grayson hums. “Well, how about we head back to the Bunker and see if there’s any hot chocolate waiting for us? I’m freezing my tail off here—”

“You don’t _have_ a tail,” Damian interrupts, but Grayson keeps going.

“—and I know you’re probably not much better. Heck, sometimes I had to—” Grayson stutters to a stop, smile freezing and then falling in the way that can only mean that he’s thinking about Father. Grayson swallows. His smile is back, but it’s only _just_ there, and it’s tinged with bitter sadness. “B refused to admit that he was cold, too. You’re a lot like him, you know?”

Damian doesn’t know, and he bites down the irritation over the fact that he’ll _never_ know. For now, all he wishes is to get out of this conversation.

“Fine,” Damian snaps, pulling down on his hood. “I’m cold. Now let’s stop chattering and go back to the Bunker before we turn into icicles.”

And with that, they’re off. Back to the batmobile.

It’s not until they’re back at the Bunker, dressed in comfortable clothing and hot chocolate in hand, that Grayson pulls him closer into some sort of side embrace and says, “Hey, next time you’re cold, say something, ‘kay?”

Damian scoffs, barely struggling in Grayson’s hold. He’s used to the man’s incessant need for physical contact by now, and it doesn’t bother him as much as it did in the beginning. In fact, sometimes during their quiet moments, he even welcomes Grayson’s hugs and hair ruffles.

But right now he’s irritated and he would just like to enjoy his hot chocolate. “We were on patrol,” Damian tells him. “There was crime to be dealt with, and we can’t stop just because I get a bit of a chill.”

Grayson smiles in that annoyingly knowing way. “We can until Alfred finishes insulating your new uniform.” He pauses, pulls away from Damian a little, and lightly bonks him on the head. “Besides. Nothing’s more important than you, dummy.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic with a near death injured dick and pain meds

Dick is floating. And burning. He’s dead.

Or maybe he’s not.

It’s hard to tell much of anything here in the numbing, floating, burning darkness. His head is muddled, and he can’t make sense of the fragments of memories that wash over him from time to time.

He remembers a bomb. Fire. Pain. All encompassing,  _burning_  pain that hurt much more than the darkness does. He remembers Damian’s face. His brow creasing in worry, his demands for Dick to  _“stay with me, Nightwing. Father will be here in less than a minute—”_

And then he remembers a bloody hand cupping Damian’s masked face. He remembers smiling.

Then the black.

The cycle continues for a while. Floating, burning, pain, darkness. Memories that cause a different sort of pain. Confusion. And then black again.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the pain changes. it’s still dark, but it’s a different sort of dark. He’s still muddled, but he can feel his body again, he can feel himself, and he knows if tries to move his limbs, they’ll move.

He opens his eyes.

There’s Damian, scowling down at him. 

“Hi,” he whispers, his voice slurring horribly. He’s too tired to smile, but he tries anyways. Damian’s frown deepens, though, so Dick’s not sure how well he succeeds. “You okay?”

Damian scoffs, but when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. Says, “I’m fine.”

It sounds like he’s been crying. His eyes aren’t wet, and Dick doesn’t think Damian would appreciate it if he brought it up after just opening his eyes.

Besides, Dick can feel the exhaustion threatening to overtake him again, ready to take him down into the burning blackness. He’ll have to make Damian’s emotionally okay later.

“Tha’s good,” Dick says. His eyelids are fluttering. “Was afraid...you got hurt, too.”

“You were the only one hurt, Richard,” Damian tells him. He’s quiet for a moment longer, and then he continues, “I’m glad you’re awake.”

Dick hums. “Not f’r long,” he whispers, finally losing the fight to keep his eyes open. “Bruce’s go’ me on...the goo’ stuff.”

There’s no response to that, and Dick only realizes once he wakes up later to Damian asleep on his arm and Bruce sitting on the opposite side of the bed, reading a book that he’d probably fallen asleep before he could hear it.

“How’re you feeling?” Bruce asks, his voice quiet.

Damian doesn’t stir.

Dick doesn’t know how to answer that. Like shit, probably wouldn’t work. Like he’s been slow-roasted at three hundred and sixty degrees in an oven probably wouldn’t work either. He settles on, “Fine. Casualties?”

Bruce hums, sets down his book, and grabs a cup of ice chips. He helps Dick suck on one, and it’s only then that he replies, “Just you.”

Dick would be annoyed if he wasn’t so tired. Instead, Dick just sighs and closes his eyes. He’s tired, numb, and hurt. His head’s a complete mess, and he’s pretty sure the pain meds are wearing off.

For some reason, after a moment, his breath hitches, and his chest tightens, and there’s a burning behind his closed eyelids. Dick bites his lip. He places the hand Damian’s not currently using as a pillow to cover his eyes and he tries to just breathe.

He can’t believe he’s on the edge of a breakdown right  _now_  of all times.

His shoulders shake with sobs before he can stop them, and the only thing he can do is make sure they’re as noiseless as possible, so Damian won’t wake up and see him falling apart like this.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just waits for the worst to pass, lets Dick cry his emotions and pain out as he runs soothing fingers through his hair.

It takes a few minutes, but the sobs finally subside, and Dick’s left with heavy breaths and a runny nose, and he just wants to fall back into that muddled darkness again, because at least  _then_  he didn’t have to deal with the fact that he almost let his brother walk into a building with a bomb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bruce tells him, like the damn mind reader he is.

“I should have known,” Dick whispers.

“How?”

“Because I was trained better than that,” Dick says. “I cased the building, and I didn’t find anything until it was too late.”

“The building was abandoned. You were the only one who got hurt,” Bruce says simply. His fingers keep playing with Dick’s hair. “You found the bomb before Damian went in. You warned him in time, and then you minimized the damage to the best of your abilities. That’s  _exactly_  what I trained you to do.”

Dick doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. He keep his hand over his eyes, blocking out the world. The only thing he can’t block out are Bruce and Damian, who are both physically touching him.

They’re reassuring, though.

“Do you understand me, Dick?” Bruce asks.

“Yes,” is Dick’s whispered response. “I understand.”

There’s silence, but it’s not tense. It’s not charged with emotion. It’s comfortable and comfort _ing_ , and Dick finds himself relaxing, the tension draining out of him bit by bit under Bruce’s fingers. Bruce stops after a moment, and then he pulls Dick’s hand away from his face and holds it.

Dick can see Bruce’s face now, and he blinks at his dad, sniffling.

“Hi,” Dick says.

That earns a quirk of the lips. “Hi. Are you alright now?”

Dick doesn’t smile. He stares at his hand, still so dwarfed by Bruce’s, even at twenty-four years old, and wonders. It takes a moment, but finally, he says, “I’m tired.”

“Sleep,” Bruce tells him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Dick  _does_  sleep. He closes his eyes and he lets himself fall back into unconsciousness. And this time, he’s not back in that darkness, watching memory fragments like a self-inflicted torture. 

No, this time he dreams. And when he wakes up, Bruce is still right there next to him, holding his hand.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: “How could you forget your son’s birthday?” with dick and b!

“Dick, feet off the coffee table,” Bruce says casually. Dick rolls his eyes, because the man on the adjacent couch isn’t even looking, too focused on whatever work he has sitting in his lap. When Dick doesn’t move, Bruce frowns. “ _Now,_ Dick. Or Alfred’ll have my head.”

“Wouldn’t he have _my_ head if I’m the one with my feet on the table?” Dick wonders, bouncing his heels lightly on the wood in front of him.

“You’re ten,” Bruce says simply, like that explains anything.

“So?” Dick asks.

Bruce hums instead of responding, and Dick makes a face, sticking his tongue out just because he can. Bruce doesn’t react other than scribble something on one of the documents, so Dick takes his heels off the coffee table and swivels so his feet are aimed towards Bruce. He then tries his best to poke Bruce in the face with his toes.

Bruce swats them away gently with an accompanying scowl. “Stop it, Dick, I’m trying to work.”

“And I’m tryna get an explanation,” Dick huffs, toes heading towards Bruce’s face, wriggling.

Bruce finally grabs Dick’s foot and _finally_ looks up at him. “Dick, seriously. This is important.”

“Mhmm,” Dick nods enthusiastically, probably looking ridiculous stretched out along the couch, with both feet in the air and his tongue stuck between his teeth. “So is my question.”

Bruce sighs, moving his work out of his lap and onto the other cushion so he can stand up and move over to Dick. He’s still holding one of Dick’s feet so Dick ends up on his back on the couch with his feet straight up in the air, lying on Bruce’s chest. He’s basically a right angle, and he kicks his free foot into Bruce gently just because he can.

“Fine,” Bruce says. “What’s your question?”

“Why’ll Alfred get mad at _you_ and not _me?”_ Dick wonders. “I mean, it was my feet on the table. Not yours.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Did I say he wouldn’t get mad at you?”

Dick shrugs the best he can in his position. “Not necessarily.”

“Then don’t assume,” Bruce starts, and Dick can tell this is going to spiral into vigilante lessons, and he’s very inclined to _not_ do that right now, since they’d already taken up most of their Saturday with that very thing. Right now he just wants to relax and not think about Batman and Robin. Right now he just wants to be Bruce and Dick. “Jumping to a conclusion will very likely—”

“—get you killed, yadda, yadda,” Dick says, waving his arms dramatically in the air. He kicks his feet again, too, and Bruce’s hold tightens a touch. Not enough to hurt, though, so Dick leaves it, sucks a huge breath in, and lets out like he’s deflating. “Bruce, I know all this already. I just wanna know why Alfred would be after you, so tellllllll meeeeeeeeee.”

Bruce lets go of his foot and steps back with a small smile. “Brat,” he says. Then he continues, “Alfred says that since you can’t seem to keep your feet on the ground, if I don’t tell you to stop, he’ll stop serving hot chocolate after patrol.”

Dick snorts, letting his feet flop back onto the couch so that he’s spread eagle over it. “And he thinks that you telling me to stop will make me stop?”

“Apparently,” Bruce says.

“Do you actually care about whether I put my feet on the coffee table?” Dick wonders. “Because this is the first time you’ve said something.”

“I care about what Alfred says,” Bruce tells him cryptically.

Dick grins, though, because he gets the hidden meaning. “But _you_ don’t care.”

“You’re still not allowed to do it anymore,” Bruce tells him, sitting back down on the couch by his paperwork. “Alfred’s rules. And if you break Alfred’s rules, you know that there’ll be no patrol for two weeks.”

Dick giggles and sits up, bouncing on the cushions a bit. “Okay, okay, but like birthdays are a special occasion, right?”

Bruce gives him a deadpan stare. “Not to put your feet up on the coffee table.”

Dick bounces a little more enthusiastically. “C’mon, Bruce. If it’s my birthday, then I should be able to put my feet on whatever I darn well please.”

Sighing, Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, looking for all the world like he wants to be anywhere else, but Dick can see the upward quirk of his lips, and his forehead is smooth from worry lines, so Dick’s not so worried.

“We’ll talk about it on your birthday,” Bruce tries.

Dick grins and kicks his feet up on the table again. “Great. So let’s talk.”

Bruce mock glares at him. “Dick.”

“Bruce,” Dick parrots right back, same tone and everything. By the long-suffering glance at Dick’s heels bouncing on the coffee table, Dick can tell that Bruce is wondering whether it’s worth it to continue this conversation. Which _means,_ “I win!”

“It’s not your birthday,” Bruce tells him. “Feet off the table.”

Dick fake gasps, hands held over his chest and his features arranged into something that’s supposed to look like a mixture between offense and hurt. “Bruce, how could you forget your son’s birthday?!”

“Nice try,” Bruce says, grabbing his paperwork and settling it on his lap, “but it’s September. Feet. Off the table. Now.”

Dick sighs and slumps back into the couch, his feet sliding off the table again. “But just so you know, we’re revisiting this when my _actual_ birthday comes up.”

Bruce is back to staring at his work, but Dick’s statement is enough to make him smile. “You think you’ll be able to take on Alfred by then?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Dick exclaims. “I’ll be a whole eleven years old by then, and eleven year olds have more power than ten year olds. I mean, eleven year olds are _preteens,_ Bruce!”

Dick keeps chattering away for the rest of the afternoon, keeping Bruce engaged in conversation until dinner is done, and even when they’re seated at the table, Bruce’s worry lines are still gone from his face, so Dick thinks that the day was altogether pretty successful.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: 53. “I’ll keep you safe.” dick and damian with dick being hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna edit this, but I’m a lazy piece of garbage and cannot physically get myself to do it, so here you go. Warning for vomiting.

Dick wakes up on the floor of a dark room, and he’s exhausted enough to want to roll over and fall back asleep. But there are small, familiar fingers lightly brushing through his hair and his head is pillowed in someone’s lap. Not to mention he doesn’t’ remember actually  _ falling asleep, _ so closing his eyes again is probably not the best idea.

He must make a noise or maybe he shifts a little, because the fingers in his hair still. 

“Grayson?” Damian’s voice whispers into the darkness.

Dick hums an affirmative, blinking against his exhaustion.

“Are you awake?” Damian asks.

“Yeah,” Dick croaks out. He definitely wishes that he wasn’t, though, but that’s not something he’s going to say out loud. “Where’re we?”

Damian hesitates to answer, and that’s when his fingers start brushing through Dick’s hair again. Dick finds himself relaxing at the feeling. It’s like he’s back at home, curled on the couch after a particularly nasty patrol, head on Bruce’s thigh as they watch some old film in French neither of them can completely understand.

But instead of Bruce, it’s Damian, and Dick still has no idea where he is. Damian hasn’t answered him, and now that Dick thinks about it, that’s probably answer enough.

“Did you call for backup?” Dick wonders, his voice still an absolute wreck. “Bruce? Steph or Cass? Tim or Jason?”

“Father is on his way,” Damian says, but it’s still stiff and if Dick ad more energy, maybe he’d try and decipher  _ why _ Damian’s acting the way he is. But he’s tired. Tired enough for his eyelids to droop, even as Damian asks quietly, “How much do you remember?”

Dick grimaces. “Not much. I think I remember starting patrol. Then we split off from Bruce and Tim? It’s kind of a blur after that. I’m guessing we were fighting, though, right?”

“Yes,” Damian says.

“We win?” Dick asks. Maybe he’s trying to lighten the mood or something, or maybe he’s just using the conversation to keep himself awake. Or maybe it’s both. “Because if not, I’m gonna need the number of the bus that hit me because I owe it a punch to the face.”

Damian hesitates again, and he’s fingers still. Again. He’s tense, and Dick doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“ _ Talk _ to me,” Dick whispers. “I’m concussed but that doesn’t mean that if we’re in danger I can afford not to know the situation.”

“You’re not going to like it,” Damian tells him. He sounds unhappy, like this assessment is based off of personal experience.

“Tell me.”

“The Joker escaped from Arkham Asylum,” Damian says quietly, and Dick stills, “and for some reason neither we nor the GCPD were informed. You and I walked into an ambush. You were hit with—with a crowbar. I distracted the Joker and called for backup.”

Dick tries to make that make sense in his head. “Oh,” is all he can say, and he thinks he might sound small. Definitely unhappy. Looks like Damian had been right after all.

After what had happened with Jason, and then Barbara, and then the incident with Tim, where Dick had all but killed the Joker with his own two fists, Dick has always had a hard time looking at the Joker without feeling like he wanted to vomit all of his boots. Even thinking about him makes Dick’s stomach flip.

“So where’re we now?” Dick asks, getting back to business, because whether or not they’d been ambushed by the Joker before, him and Damian had obviously gotten away, at least to an extent. “And are we still in danger?”

“Father and Cain are handling the Joker at the moment, and since I was unable to carry you without potentially causing you more harm, I was told to wait here with you until either they finished or Drake arrived to retrieve us.”

Dick hums lightly, his eyelids drooping a bit as he realizes they’re not in  _ immediate _ danger. Bruce is dealing with the Joker, and that means that all Dick and Damian have to do is wait for him to come back and get them.

After that, Dick thinks that maybe he can close his eyes. He promises himself it’ll only be for a second, and then he’ll start teasing Damian in order to cheer the kid up a bit. And so he does close his eyes, and a second later, he wakes up to a hissed, “—son. Grayson!  _ Richard.” _

“’M up,” Dick mumbles.

“You were not,” Damian tells him, and he sounds kind of angry now. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“‘S fine,” Dick tells him. He reaches up into the darkness to find Damian’s wrist, and he holds on. “Bruce is comin’ back and you’re here. You’ll keep me safe.”

“Regardless of whether I will keep you safe, you cannot sleep with a concussion, Richard,” Damian spits. And, okay, he definitely sounds mad. “There’s no telling how bad the damage is, and if you fall asleep and don’t wake up—”

Damian cuts himself off.

Dick frowns. He’s still really only halfway conscious, but something about Damian’s tone strikes him, and it’s that more than anything that forces him to perk up a little. His head is still pounding, and all he wants to do is sleep, but—god. Damian’s thirteen years old, taking care of his concussed older brother who just passed out on him after taking a crowbar to the head.

The thought sobers him completely, and Dick’s wide awake, squeezing Damian’s wrist reassuringly. “I’m awake,” Dick says, and it’s only the  _ tiniest _ bit slurred. “But you need to keep talking.”

“You’re an imbecile.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“I say it because it is true,” Damian says.

Dick hums again.

“Don’t fall asleep again.”

Scared. Damian had sounded scared.

“I won’t,” Dick promises.

\--

Dick doesn’t fall asleep again. He comes close a few times, but Damian manages to keep him engaged in a conversation long enough, and they’re talking about knitting by the time Bruce and Cass find them.

“Robin, Nightwing,” a soft voice calls through the door, and both Dick and Damian shut up as Batman and Orphan open the door and peer in. 

Bruce is a big hulking shadow, partially blocking the light coming in through the corridor and brightening the small room from gloomy to dim. He looks a little worse for wear, but relatively unscathed. Mostly, he just looks tired, and Dick feels that. Really. He’s exhausted too.

“Heya, B,” Dick murmurs as Bruce crouches down in front of him. Bruce’s gloved hand hovers over Dick’s forehead, like he’s afraid to touch it, and there’s a shifting of his jawline that Dick reads as concern. “How bad is it?”

“Stitches,” Bruce tells him, but it’s in a weirdly gentle voice. “At the clinic.”

Dick frowns, and he closes his eyes, feeling his exhaustion pressing in. Frustration wells up on top of it, and Dick has to swallow back tears as he whispers, “Can’t I just go home?”

“Leslie’s first,” Bruce presses, quiet. “It doesn’t look good, Dick.”

Dick inhales through his nose sharply and then lets it out through his mouth, willing away the nausea that had crept up on him sometime after Bruce had opened the door. He does this a couple times, and Damian’s fingers in his hair are a constant, and Dick uses them as an anchor to center his thoughts and ignore his achy head the best he can. 

Then he opens his eyes and says as flatly as he can, “Fine. Leslie’s.”

Bruce nods, and then he looks over at Cass, gesturing her over to where the three of them are sitting. Bruce murmurs, “On one, two, three,” and then Dick’s being lifted to his feet.

Honestly, Dick doesn’t really know what happens after Bruce, Cass, and Damian start to lever him up. There’s this sensation of dizziness, and it feels like the room is spinning around him. He’s absolutely no help in bearing his own weight, and there are voices all around him--cursing, soothing. There are hands on him, and the next thing he knows, his knees are on the floor, and Bruce has both arms around his chest, and he’s wrapped around Dick as Dick’s bent over heaving into the corner.

“You’re okay,” Bruce is telling him. “It’s okay. It happens.”

It’s only then that Dick realizes that he’s crying, his chest heaving with sobs as he empties his stomach. Bruce keeps murmuring to him until he’s dry heaving, gagging on stomach acid, and then on spit when his stomach has nothing else to expel.

Finally, Dick stops vomiting, and he just hangs in firm Bruce’s hold.

“Is—Is he alright?” Dick hears Damian ask, but it sounds like it’s a thousand miles away.

Bruce grunts, and then says, “Help me lift him. He won’t be walking out of here by himself. Not in this state.”

Dick thinks that Bruce says a few more things, and maybe there’s some arguing, but he tunes it all out in favor of just staying conscious. He had told Damian he would stay awake, and he’s not breaking any promises tonight.

The one thing he does hear, though, as he’s lifted into the air again, is, “Hang in there, Dick.”

And the rest of the night is nothing but a blur of sounds and motion passing him by, his brain comprehending almost none of it. He takes in snatches—being set down in the back of the batmobile, the penlight being shined into both of his eyes, Damian’s worried face before Leslie’s hands take its place, voices that never solidify into words—but nothing else concrete.

He doesn’t fall asleep, though.

“—okay now,” Dick hears Damian whispering to him sometime later. “You’re safe.”

“‘M not gonna sleep,” Dick murmurs, though he’s not sure how much of that statement is coherent.

Damian seems to get the message, though, because there are fingers brushing through his hair again, and he hears Damian saying, “You’re an idiot, Richard. Doctor Thompkins says that you need to. Father will wake you up to check on you soon.”

“’S alright to?” Dick asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yes,” Damian says, and there are more familiar fingers squeezing his hand. “It’s alright to sleep now.”

So Dick finally,  _ finally _ lets himself fall asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, just a message for people in the comments: First of all, thank you all so much for commenting. I really, really appreciate all the feedback and wonderful things that you all have to say. It makes my day, to the point where I save them all in a folder and I go back to them if i'm having a bad day. So yes. Thank you.
> 
> Second, the fics that I'm putting out are from old prompts that have been sitting in my inbox for literal months. I have requests closed on tumblr, so I'm not taking any new ones here or there. I already have over a hundred that I may not ever even get to, so for now, I'm not taking anything new.
> 
> Thanks for understanding!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> timdrakeothy asked: 135: “I want my first kiss to be super cliche, but I don’t want to plan it out. Feel me?” With Tim talking to Dick for big brotherly relationship advice??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hints of timkon

“Dick?”

Dick hums from where he’s sitting upside down on the couch, reading a text from Wally. He doesn’t really understand most of it, so he replies with a,  _stop texting while ur running or ill have babs hack into ur phone again_ , and when there’s no response to  _his_  response, Dick looks up.

Tim’s standing in the doorway to the living room, and he’s got this punched expression on his face that screams that there’s been far too many late night worry sessions and definitely not enough sleep.

“Tim?” Dick asks, swinging himself so that he’s sitting the right way up.”You need something?”

“Can I talk to about something?” Tim asks.

Dick smiles, making sure it’s reassuring. He pats the seat next to him. “Sure, Timmy.”

Tim sits down, gingerly. He’s practically walking on eggshells, which makes absolutely no sense, unless he’s hacked into the wrong database again and hasn’t told anyone that he’s being out-hacked.

Which is probably way off base, because that had only happened one time, and Tim had handled it pretty well, considering the kid had been thirteen and not even Robin for a year.

“It’s about—” Tim’s eyes dart to the side and then back to Dick’s face. “It’s about relationships.”

Dick blinks, and then he’s biting back a smile. “Yeah?” he asks. “Do I get to know who the lucky gal is? Or guy?”

“I’m—” Tim’s turning more and more red by the second, so Dick wraps his arm around his little brother and pulls him into a hug.

“I’m kidding, Tim,” Dick soothes. “What do you need?”

“I—I’m kind, like—I  _like,_  like this person,” Tim stutters, and he’s fidgeting now. Not looking Dick in the eye. “And I’m pretty this person likes me back. But this isn’t like it was with Steph, and I just want—I don’t know. Is it weird that I want my first kiss to be super cliche, but like I don’t want to plan it out? Feel me? Because if you don’t, and I have to talk to someone else, I don’t—”

“No, no,” Dick says, chuckling. “No, I get you, Timmers. Don’t worry. But kissing isn’t really something you plan much anyways. Trust me.”

“But—”

“Tim, seriously,” and Dick shakes him a little, “don’t stress over this too much. It’ll happen when it happens. And if there’s a moment when you think,  _hey, this is the right moment,_  shut off that big brain of yours for a second and just go for it.”

Tim stares at him, hands still fidgeting. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Tim slumps into him. “I want to kiss him while we’re flying.”

Dick laughs for real this time. “Then kiss him while you’re flying. Just make sure that you two don’t fall out of the air. Bruce’ll get mad if Kon brings you home with a concussion.”

Tim turns red, and he’s out of the room in seconds, muttering nonsense under his breath. Dick just keeps on laughing and his phone finally pings with a coherent text from Wally.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rosevered asked: Prompts still open? If so, then 104 or 115 with Batboys please?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 104: “I don’t kidnap, I just temporarily borrow a person.”
> 
> Doesn't exactly follow the prompt.

Dick’s eyes snap open the moment he realizes there are ropes binding his hands behind his back. His left wrist is definitely broken, and he has no idea where he is or how he got here. The only clue he has to go on is the high ceiling of a warehouse that’s miles above him, and the fact that he feels like he’d just been in a fight.

Had he been in a fight? He can’t remember. The last memory he can recall is of eating at the dinner table with Bruce, Tim, and Damian.

But he’s in his Nightwing suit. He has to have been on patrol. Which means he’s missing  _hours_. At the very least.

He needs to figure this out. He needs to—needs to—

Sleep. He needs to sleep. Just for a moment. And then he’ll figure out what’s going on.

His eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and then they’re slipping shut. The next thing he knows, someone’s rolling Dick over, onto his side, and tugging at the ropes that are binding his arms together. Dick isn’t really coherent enough to register anything past the  _oh hell, I fell asleep and let someone get near me I’m so stupid_  phase in his mind.

So, he starts struggling.

Only to try and roll over and cry when he hears familiar colorful cursing above him. “Would you  _stop,_  you Dickhead?” Jason’s voice hisses into the darkness. Dick doesn’t really succeed with the rolling over part, since Jason’s still working at his ropes, but he does succeed at the crying part, especially when Jason says, “I’m actually trying to help you, here.”

“Jason,” Dick says, his voice thick with tears.” _Jason.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason says, tone low and somewhat gentle. “It’s me. And you have a concussion.”

“You’re not trying to kidnap me?”

“Damn you,” Jason snaps. “Why the hell would I be trying to get you free if I was kidnapping you?”

“You kidnapped Damian,” Dick tells him, just because it’s a thought in his head and not because he actually remembers what had happened. He doesn’t really remember much of anything at the moment.

“Yeah, and I gave him right back a couple hours later,” Jason says, and there’s a sharp tug on Dick’s wrists that makes him hiss in pain. “Sorry. Just, I only snatched him because  _you_  told me to.”

“You kidnapped him,” Dick says, stuck on the phrase. “But you’re not kidnapping me?”

“Oh—you moron, we just went through this.” Dick can  _feel_  the eyeroll, even if he can’t see it in the gloom of the warehouse. “I’m rescuing your damsel in distress ass, and I only  _borrowed_  Damian because you said that you were setting up a surprise for him.”

Dick scrunches up his eyes, trying to make that make sense. “You tried to kill Tim.”

“Really, Dickface,” Jason says, tone completely flat. “You’re gonna bring that up now?”

“I love you, Jay,” Dick whispers. “Don’t kill or kidnap anybody, please. I gotta bring you home.”

“Hey, hey,” Jason is saying, and then he’s right in Dick’s face, rolling Dick onto his back. Dick’s wrists are free, so he grabs onto Jason’s jacket with his good hand, desperately clinging to his little brother. Jason’s tone is gentle as he continues, “No one’s killing or kidnapping anyone, okay? Remember, I’m rescuing you. Yeah, Dick?”

Dick nods.

Jason nods, too. “Okay. Batman already dealt with the asshole who took you out, so let’s get you out of here, alright?”

“‘Kay,” Dick says, and he clings onto Jason as Jason pulls him into an upright position. 

At some point, Bruce had swooped in and helped Jason get Dick onto his feet, and Dick just let him hang there, between the two. They were whispering between themselves, and Dick just let them be as they ushered Dick out of the warehouse and into the batmobile. Dick had just laid his head against the window when suddenly he was being shaken awake.

They’re in the Cave. And Dick blinks over at Bruce, who’s got the cowl down, and he’s staring at Dick’s face with a slightly guilty look. Dick’s a little too far gone to decipher it, though.

“Where’s Jason?” Dick asks, because he remembers Jason. Jason who need to come home to him and Bruce. “He was here.”

The door to the passenger side of the batmobile opens and then Jason’s helping him out of the car, slinging Dick’s arm around his neck, and Dick’s crying again as he’s led to the infirmary, where Alfred and Tim are waiting. Damian’s nowhere to be found, though.

Jason, though, is big and strong, and he helps Dick lie down onto one of the cots. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Tim asks, looking alarmed, and Dick bites back a sob.  

His shoulders shake, though, and when Jason goes to pull back, Dick holds on with both good and bad hands, even through the trembling, because—because—

“When did you get so big?” Dick sobs.

Jason’s eyes go big, and he takes a step back from Dick, mouth open. Bruce steps forward, though, into Dick’s space, and he’s prying Dick’s fingers from Jason’s jacket, and then peeling the mask from Dick’s face. The tears run freely down Dick’s face, and he just feels so confused.

“Bruce,” he says. Doesn’t know what he wants. Just repeats, “Bruce.”

“You’re okay, Dick,” Bruce says, brushing the hair from Dick’s forehead. “Everyone’s okay. Everyone’s home.”

And Dick believes him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tantalumcobalt asked: Either 148 or 108 for Dick and Tim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 108\. “Not everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Tim,” Dick says, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to staunch an oncoming headache, “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Too late,” Tim grits out. “Because we’re talking.”

Dick’s face falls into his hands, and Tim waits him out. They’re sitting in the penthouse kitchen, Alfred somewhere down below them in the Bunker, and Damian out with Steph doing some surveillance. Tim and Dick are alone.

Tim and Dick are also fighting.

“Dick,” Tim snaps, because Dick’s been silent far too long. “You can’t just ignore me.”

“I’m not  _trying_  to,” Dick says, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of—something.

There’s some emotion there, and Tim doesn’t want to read too much into it, because if he does, things are going to get very complicated, very fast, and Tim’s been enjoying—well, not enjoying, but maybe he’s comfortably numb in what he’s carved out as his understanding of the world he’s been thrown into. Dick threw him out, and coming back has been a fight and a half, both with himself and Dick. But he’s here, so it counts for something.

Still, he doesn’t want to feel bad for Dick. Not right now. Not when everything is still raw and hurting under his skin. He doesn’t want to know how hard Dick’s been fighting to keep up this life, because if he knows, then he’s going to want to come back. Slot himself right back by Dick’s side, and Dick’s got Damian now, and someone needs to look for Bruce.

“I’ve got—paperwork, cases piling up, homeschooling for Damian,” Dick tells him, gesturing at the piles of papers stacked around him on the counter. “Not to mention i have a meeting with Lucius in like an hour, and then there’s the dinner tonight, and the Joker’s still missing, and I know him well enough to know that he’s going to make his move any day now, and I have to find him  _before_  that happens, and Tim. Tim, this is the last thing I need right now.”

Anger wars with guilt, and this is exactly what Tim didn’t want. He wants to help. He wants to run. He wants to be a good brother. He wants to ditch the brother that ditched him.

Anger wins, though, and Tim snaps, “You’re Batman. You’re supposed to be able to handle this.”

He regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth. But he doesn’t take them back. Not even when Dick’s shoulders rise up to his ears, his face still in his hands, and there’s this sense of dread that fills Tim up, because he’s not entirely sure Dick won’t just start crying.

And if Dick starts crying, Tim’s pretty sure that he’ll start crying, too.

But Dick doesn’t cry. Instead he just says, “Do you think I don’t know that?” in a clear voice that screams  _hiding my emotions_  at Tim.

Tim slumps down into a stool. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he says after a quiet moment. “I came to you for help.”

“And I’ll help you,” Dick says, dropping his hands from his face at last. He still doesn’t look at Tim, though. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Maybe months. “I would never not help you, Tim.”

“But Damian comes first,” Tim says, the bitterness rising up in his throat when he catches sight of an essay with a big red  _A+_  displayed on the fridge.

Dick closes his eyes. “Dammit, Tim. Just—whatever you need help with, does it have anything to do with Damian?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep bringing him up?”

Tim seethes. “You made him Robin, Dick. You made it clear where your loyalties lie.”

Dick laughs bitterly. “I’m not going to play this game, Tim. Not right now. I can’t handle it without going insane.”

Tim stands up, stool clattering to the floor behind him. The sound is loud in the quiet apartment, but only Dick flinches. Tim stares at the man who both is and isn’t family and hates what he sees. He hates that he could probably help fix Dick, too, if he tried. But he doesn’t know how to stem his own anger, his own desperation to find Bruce and have his dad fix this entire mess. Make things go back to the way they were before he was—

“Then I’ll call someone else to help,” Tim snaps, his eyes burning and his heart hurting. “But Dick, when Damian burns you, don’t come crying to me. Some people don’t deserve a second chance, and you gave it to exactly the wrong person.”

And with that, Tim’s gone, Dick left behind at the kitchen counter. And he doesn’t look back.

Still, when Dick catches him weeks later, Tim feels nothing but relief, because Dick  _came_  for him, and he doesn’t think he expected anything else.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 124 “I’m sick of being in your shadow.” Dick talking to Bruce's batsuit in its case (substituting it for his dead mentor) and one (or all) of the robins (former or otherwise) overhear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This deviated from the prompt a little bit

Jason finds Dick in the Cave.

Well, more like Jason stumbles on Dick sitting in front of Bruce’s old bat suit. The one from before Dick took his stint as Batman. The one Bruce wore before he’d been lost to time. 

Jason hadn’t really been there for much of the aftermath, but he’d sat down with Alfred enough times to hear all of the gritty details over tea. He’d hated the sad look in Alfred’s eyes as he talked about the stress Dick had been under, and Jason had nothing to say. He’d taken the details in silence, and then they never spoke about it again.

None of them did. Not really. Dick would sometimes bring up a case, but none of the nitty gritty stuff, none of the emotions behind the time Bruce had been presumed dead was ever brought up.

Jason thinks it’s better that way. None of them are really good with emotions, and if Dick doesn’t want to bring it up, if he doesn’t want to deal with it, it’s his choice.

So when Jason finds Dick slumped against the case, eyes red, puffy, and unfocused, he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do.

“Hey, Dickie,” Jason says, crouching down next to him. “Whatcha doin’ down here? Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“I am home,” Dick mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Your apartment, Goldie,” Jason clarifies. “Damian said you weren’t visiting until this weekend. ‘Course you showed up earlier, though. Just had to steal my Alfred time, didn’t you?”

Dick’s forehead creases, and he’s silent for long enough that Jason honestly thinks about calling Bruce down here and getting Dick some help, because—Dick’s never silent. Not unless he’s angry. And not ever like this. Where he looks two steps from Breakdown Avenue.

“Dick?”

“‘M tryna think,” Dick says, eyes slitting open. They’re still sort of unfocused, and Jason feels panic start to creep into his brain. Dick keeps going. “Had t’see Bruce.”

Dread pools in Jason’s stomach as Dick symptoms click. He swallows past the growing lump in his throat and says, “Are you  _drunk?_ ”

Dick squints at him angrily. “I don’t drink.”

“Drugs then,” Jason says, alarm and panic twisting and merging until they’re inseparable, and he thinks he  _really_  should call Bruce. This isn’t his problem. It’s Bruce’s. And Dick’s. And yet. “Did you take something?”

Dick frowns, his eyes sliding away. “Think I—walked into something?” Dick pushes his head against the glass, his expression twisting in his haze of drugs and pain. “Cloud. It was a cloud.”

“Dammit,” Jason mutters, heart beating twice as fast. He grabs his phone and smashes Bruce’s name before he glares at Dick, hand covering his brother’s hot forehead. “How the hell did you even get here? And why didn’t an alert warn us about your vitals? You’re burning up, and your suit should have—”

“Wasn’t wearing it,” Dick tells him.

“Why?” Jason asks, angry enough that his question comes out a growl.

But Dick has nothing else to offer. He just closes his eyes again.

“Stay awake, Dick,” Jason orders. Dick grimaces. “I mean it, you—"

“ _Jason,”_  Bruce’s voice breathes from the other line.

“You need to get downstairs,” Jason snaps. His anger at the situation has no direction now that Dick’s not really responding to him, so it takes the route that’s easiest to him. After all, anger at Bruce is nothing new. “I think Dick’s been drugged.”

“ _Keep him awake,”_  is all Bruce says. And then he hangs up.

_Typical,_  Jason thinks, shoving his phone back into his jeans pockets. “You better stay awake,” Jason tells Dick. “Or Bruce is going to yell at me for something I totally do not deserve, and it’ll be your fault, and then Alfred will be mad at—”

“Stop it,” Dick whispers, shaky hand reaching up to clutch at the glass. “Stop talking about him. He’s not here.”

“Bruce?” Jason asks. “Yeah, he’s coming, you dumbfuck, and we’re going to help you get whatever’s in your system out.”

“Bruce is dead.”

The words are so flat and emotionless, Jason has to take a second to assure himself that  _yes,_  that had been Dick who had said that. Dick, who is so obviously in some addled state, and has no idea what the hell is going on around him. Jason's anger shrivels just the tiniest amount.

“Bruce isn’t dead,” Jason says. “Why would you think that?”

“He died, Jason,” Dick says, his voice rising with emotion. “He died, and he left everything to me, and I can’t handle it! Everyone’s gone now, and I can’t handle  _any_  of this anymore!”

He’s glaring at Jason now, and Jason can’t do anything but stare bewildered back. He should move, do something, do anything but sit here and look at his big brother break down because he thinks their dad is dead, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know how.

Of course, that’s when Bruce bursts into the Cave.

“Dick,” Bruce says, his chest heaving with every breath. His hair is matted on one side of his head, and he’s still in sweats and a t-shirt. He’s barefoot, too. Jason had probably just woken him up. Because of course the man would still be sleeping. After all, it’s not even lunch time yet.

“Bruce,” Dick croaks. His eyes fill with tears, and he bangs his head lightly against the glass case. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

“I’m real, Dick,” Bruce says, surprisingly steady. “You’ve been drugged. We need to take a blood test and see if we can get whatever is in your bloodstream, out.”

Dick shakes his head, screws up his eyes, and yells, “You’re not real!”

It’s all Jason can do to even keep sitting there.

“Dick—”

“No!” he cries, flinching away from the hand Bruce tries to touch his shoulder with. “No. I’m  _sick_  of being in your shadow! I’m sick of living your life! I miss you all the time and—and it’s all too much! I’m not ready to be Batman. I’m not ready to  _raise your son!_  I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—”

He’s trapped in the past, Jason realizes. Dick’s completely and utterly convinced that Bruce is still dead. That he’s still Batman.

Bruce grabs Dick’s flailing hands and holds them close to his own chest. And when he speaks, his voice is steady. “Dick, look at me.” It takes a moment, but Dick meets Bruce’s eyes. “I’m here. I’m alive.”

“I  _want_  that,” Dick tells him, and he’s sobbing now, his shoulders hitching. “I want you to come back. I want you to hug me and watch stupid old movies with me on the couch, and I want you to be  _here.”_

“I am here,” Bruce says, squeezing Dick’s hands, and he sounds so gentle, sort of like when he’s talking to a victim, but warmer. Jason remembers that tone, though. It’s one he hasn’t heard in a long time. “I’m here. We’re both here. Alive. There’s a drug in your system that’s making you think differently. Jason and I can help you. Will you let us help you?”

Finally, Dick nods. Bruce scoops him up with a grunt and nods to Jason. Jason runs to a cot to set up an IV while Bruce sets Dick down. Dick’s quiet, but he’s still trembling. He doesn’t say anything as Jason sets up his port and inserts the IV line.

Jason and Bruce work over Dick in silence. Eventually, Dick passes out, and Jason finds the courage to ask, “What was that?” even though he knows full well what just happened.

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long time. And then, “I’ll talk to him. Tonight.”

Jason resists the urge to say,  _you better,_ because he’s still reeling, and starting an argument is probably not the best thing to do in a situation like this. Instead, he says, “Okay.”

Bruce stops and stares at Jason a moment, and Jason finds himself fidgeting under his gaze.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks, that same warm tone he used with Dick back again. Jason finds himself hunching up his shoulders and staring at Dick’s unconscious body. He doesn’t answer. Bruce sighs, and then he does something that he hasn’t done in a long time.

Bruce hugs him.

Jason’s stiff, but he melts into the hug after a moment, and they just sit there, staring at Dick. Jason thinks that this has maybe been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may come back to this and add more, but no guarantees.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hollyhock13 asked: Ahh idk how many prompts you have already, but some of Dick's siblings visiting while he's with one of his teams and somebody asks him number 8 "how many siblings do you have?" And it would be cute or maybe a little sad if he thinks of Jason, idk. You don't even have to write it, just think about how cute it could be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard John Grayson will always be a police officer in my heart.

“Hey, Grayson!” Terrence calls to Dick from over by the entrance to the bullpen. “Come over here for a second!”

Dick blinks up from his report about the almost-shooting he and his partner had had to deal with this morning and focuses on Terrence. He’s being waved over, and Dick stands up and jogs over, ignoring the half-annoyed, half-amused looks being thrown his and Terrence’s way.

He’s had sort of a rough week. Talks of a gang war staring has him all over the place, helping to patch things up as both Nightwing  _and_  a member of Bludhaven’s police force. He’s tired beyond all belief, and after he gets off his shift tonight, he’s supposed to head over to Gotham and help Bruce and Damian with a case of their own.

Exhausting, but necessary.

“What’s up?” Dick asks as he stops in front of Terrence. “Is this about Maria’s get well soon card? Because I already signed it. And talked to her. And sent her some cookies.”

Terrence laughs, smile lighting up his face, and Dick can’t help but smile back. “Nah, it’s not about Maria’s card. There’s some people at the front desk waiting for you.”

“People?” Dick frowns in confusion. The only people who would visit Dick at work were probably Alfred and Wally, and it’s highly unlikely that they’d be coming together. Maybe Alfred had dragged Bruce along this time, or something. But for what reason. “Did they say who they were?”

“Family,” Terrence says with a shrug as they rounded the corner and made it to the front desk area. There’s nobody there, and Terrence keeps going, heading towards once of the conference rooms. As he opens the door, he continues, “I escorted them in here to keep the waiting area free.”

As soon as Dick enters, he stops short. Because  _wow._ His  _entire_  family is lounging around the room, some of them with smiles on their faces, some of them with bored expressions, and one looking like he wants to be absolutely anywhere but here.

And yet, Jason is still here.

 _“_ What are you all  _doing_  here?” Dick wonders, eyes wide and jaw slack, even as he goes to pull Cass and Tim – the two closes to him – into a hug. “You guys never come to see me at work. And definitely not all at once.”

Tim shrugs, easy grin on his face. It’s a nice look on him. Definitely beats the stressed out thing he’s been doing lately. “Surprise?”

Dick laughs. “Heck yeah, it’s a surprise.” He looks over at Bruce, and then makes eye contact with Alfred, Damian, Steph, Jason, Babs, and Clark all in turn. “Seriously. Is this an intervention. Oh, hell, is someone dying? Am  _I_  dying? No, wait, I’d know about that.”

Damian scoffs. “Stop prattling on like that, Grayson. No one is dying.”

“Not  _yet,”_ Jason murmurs, right before Steph elbows him.

“Not helping,” she hisses.

“We can hear you,” Tim sighs. “Both of you.”

Steph flips Tim the bird, and then there’s pandemonium. Tim slips out from Dick’s grasp as Damian insults him, and Steph and Jason egg the two of them on. Babs eventually gets pulled in, and she rolls her eyes and starts nagging everyone. Bruce sits there, his fingers massaging his temples, and Alfred just shares a resigned look with Clark. Cass, though, giggles into his shoulder, and Dick can’t help but grin.

“Holy shit,” Dick hears someone whispers from behind him. There’s some rustling, and he turns around just in time to see that he and Terrence had left the door open, and Officer Amacker and a couple other people had come to see what the commotion was. “Is that  _Bruce Wayne?_ How does Grayson know Bruce Wayne?”

“Shut up, Amacker,” Terrazas says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the biggest idiot in the world if you didn’t know that Grayson was Wayne’s son.”

Mindy Miller meets Dick’s eyes, her own wide, and asks, “How many siblings do you  _have,_ Grayson?”

“Four,” he says truthfully. “But that doesn’t mean everyone in here isn’t family. I mean, you should see the house when we all get together for Thanksgiving. I have like a ton of other extended family.”

Miller pales. “There’s  _more_  of you?”

Terrence grins and pats Miller on the back. “It’s okay, Grayson. Miller’s an only child, remember?”

Terrazas rolls her eyes. “Oh seriously, can we all shut up and leave? We have jobs to do. Let’s leave Grayson to his wild pack of a family and get back to work.”

Dick waves at them as they all leave, some of them grumbling, until it’s only Terrence left behind him with Dick and his family.

“So why  _did_  you guys come all the way out here?” Dick asks, looking down at his little sister.

Cass smiles and leans into his hug. “Missed you.”

And Dick gets it, then. He hasn’t really been home much for a few weeks, and when he has, it’s been as Nightwing, helping with cases and patrol and Joker-related problems. He hasn’t seen his family as Dick for a while, and they’d all missed him and come down here willingly – well, most of them.

Still, it’s nice to see all of their faces outside of the masks.

“I’ll come over tomorrow night,” Dick decides. “I get off early tomorrow afternoon, and I can get over to Gotham in time for Alfred’s Sunday dinner.”

“Happy,” Cass says, and then she pulls on his shirt, and Dick crouches down just long enough for her to peck a small kiss on his cheek. “We are all happy to see you. Today and tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dick says, unable to fight back his grin any longer. “I’m happy to see all of you, too.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: De-aged Damian!!!

“You know,” Tim says casually as Dick holds up his phone and snaps a picture—a gesture that would absolutely get Dick’s phone crushed if he didn’t get let off a glare. “He’s almost cute like this.”

Jason snorts, and Dick can almost  _hear_  the eye roll going on behind his back. “Sure, if you like baby demon spawn.”

Dick frowns and lowers his phone, finally looking directly into wide (adorable), green eyes. He smiles at the little boy, maybe three years old, if that, and he’s rewarded with a puzzled blink in his direction as Damian studies him.

“Soooo, is it permanent?” Jason wonders, crouching down next to Dick, and Damian’s gaze switches to Jason curiously. “‘Cause I don’t think the Boss Man would appreciate having to change diapers.”

Damian frowns then, his brow furrowing, and Dick can see the uncanny resemblance to Bruce that creeps up sometimes. But he looks just like Bruce in Alfred’s old family albums when Bruce was trying to figure out how a game worked.

“Don’t need diapers,” Damian says indignantly in a childish drawl. It’s so odd to hear Damian sound like an  _actual_  child when he’s always presented himself as older. But Damian’s three right now, not thirteen, and Dick has no doubt that it was bound to have consequences.

Jason snorts. “Suuuuuure, you don’t.”

“Besides,” Tim says, “have you ever seen Bruce with a kid? I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to hold one again.”

Jason shoots something back at Tim, but Dick doesn’t pay attention. Damian’s staring at him, and Dick can’t help but stare back. As cute as this is, he feels some inexplicable sadness welling up in his chest. He doesn’t know why it’s there, though.

Or maybe he does, and he really just doesn’t want to dwell on it.

Because Damian had been conceived while Dick had still been Robin. And if Talia had come forward about Damian back when he was born, would Dick had been able to see Damian this young? Would he have been able to see Damian grow up? Would he have been able to convince Damian that he was loved from the start? Or would Dick have treated Damian the same way Dick had first treated Jason?

He doesn’t want to think about all that, but the thoughts worm their way to the forefront of his mind anyways, and he doesn’t like the answers he’s coming up with.

Dick doesn’t think that Damian would have known that Dick loved him much at all if he’d known Dick back then. And it hurts to know that Dick would have done that to this very special person that he couldn’t imagine  _not_  dying and living for.

“Dick?” Tim calls, and Dick finally tears his eyes away from Damian’s to glance over at Tim, who’s kneeling next to him now. There’s concern blatant in his eyes. “Are you okay? You haven’t said a word since we first found him.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” Jason asks, frown pulling down his lips.

Dick shakes his head and sighs. “It’s nothing.”

There’s a tiny pat on his knee, and Dick startles and looks down to meet Damian’s gaze again. There’s a determined spark in his eye, and his cheeks are puffed out adorably. He huffs out a tiny, “Gwayson,” and Dick’s heart  _melts_.

It also solved the question of whether Damian remembered them all or not.

“Sorry, Damian,” Dick says, with a soft smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just tired, and this is a lot to deal with. Even more for you, right?”

Damian’s eyes narrow so much he looks like he’s squinting and Dick struggles not to laugh. 

“We’ll figure this out, Dami,” Dick says, successfully stifling his laughter into just a smile. He holds out a fist. “Promise.”

Dick almost cries when Damian hesitantly fist bumps him back. “Pwomise,” Damian repeats quietly, like a confirmation.

Dick tries to not let anyone in on the fact that he’s absolutely going to need like a whole five minutes to recover from how cute Damian is. He doesn’t think he succeeds.


	32. Chapter 32

When Dick breaks into Wally’s apartment, Wally’s making food.

“I have a door, you know,” Wally says, acting like he’s annoyed even though Dick  _knows_  he isn’t. “Most people actually  _use_  it. Freaking  _windows_ , what’s wrong with you people.”

“Yeah, well,” Dick says, smile nowhere to be found. “You know me. Raised in a circus and then by a man who spent his nights dressing up like a giant bat. I live for being dramatics.”

Wally doesn’t say anything for a moment. There’s a whole fifteen to twenty seconds where Wally stops stirring whatever’s in the pot on the stove and stares at Dick. Whatever he finds has him sighing, and Dick turns away. He busies himself with shutting the curtains, and when he’s satisfied, he rips off his mask and smacks it to the counter.

“Rough night?” Wally asks, even though he already knows. He always knows.

So, Dick doesn’t answer. Just asks, “Can I stay here for an hour or two?”

Wally sighs. “Sure. But if you’re here, you’re eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Wally tells him, before setting a plate of spaghetti in front of him. It’s not a lot, but it’s more than Dick thinks he can stomach right now. But he picks up his fork, and he eats. He’s barely picking at it—just a few noodles at a time—but Wally seems satisfied enough.

Dinner is spent with quiet chatter. Dick doesn’t finish his food, but he makes a sizeable dent, and Wally eats the rest. It’s nice, and Dick can almost see himself relaxing if he could just sleep. But—

“I should go,” Dick says, quietly.

“Orrrrrr you could stay,” Wally says, barely batting an eyelash at Dick’s abrupt announcement. He puts their plates in the sink and turns the water on. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to go back to it tonight. Not if it’s got you like this.”

Dick can’t say anything to that. He knows Wally’s right.

“Dick,” Wally says, practically pleading as he takes Dick’s hand and pulls him into a hug. Dick hugs back before he can even think about it, burying his face in Wally’s shoulder. “Please stay. You look like hell.  _Something_  happened, and I can’t let you go back out there when you’re not in—what did you used to call it? Oh—optimal condition. You’re not at your best, and—”

Wally cuts himself off, but Dick knows where his ramblings were headed. Because they’ve had this conversation too many times before. Especially lately. “You think I’m going to get myself killed.”

“Maybe,” Wally says. “And honestly, I kind of like you  _not_  dead. So, stay?”

“Yeah,” Dick sighs. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Wally pulls away from the hug and Dick finds a small smile on his best friend’s face. “How about we watch a movie, yeah?”

Dick nods. It’s not the best night he’s had, and he still has a billion things to deal with when he gets back to Blüdhaven, but lying on the couch with Wally, watching dumb movies from their childhood, his head on Wally’s chest and counting each rise and fall, Dick finally falls asleep and leaves his worries for tomorrow.


	33. Chapter 33

“Shit,” Dick murmurs through his motorcycle helmet, even though breathing is already starting to get hard. “Shit. Shit.  _Fuck.”_

He’s jumping off his bike before he even fully stops, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the Cave floor. His fingers are shaking, but that doesn’t stop him from clawing at the seams of his torn uniform. Everything’s getting blurry, and he’s dizzy.

“Bruce!” Dick wheezes out. Prays he’s loud enough. He doesn’t think so. He tries again just as he finally gets his gloves off. “ _Bruce!”_

Bruce is there in less time than it takes for Dick to fall to his ass and start working at a boot. The trembling’s getting worse, and Bruce is kind of just a black blur with a head. It’d be funny if this was any other situation. He gets Dick’s other boot off much faster than Dick can, pushing away Dick’s shaking fingers to start on the one Dick had been working on.

Dick goes for his escrima sticks instead, and they clatter to the ground.

“What happened?” Bruce asks, his voice low. Dick starts shoving frantically at his uniform, can’t get it off fast enough. He’s not breathing right, though, and he’s not really in his right mind. He’s too desperate to get his uniform off, and Bruce has to ask again, “Dick. You need to calm down and tell me what happened.”

“They had—something,” Dick tries to explain. “Gas, I think. I had my mask, but my uniform was already ripped, and it got into the tears. God, it  _burns,_  Bruce. I need—I need—”

Dick can’t finish what he’s saying, but luckily, Bruce starts helping out of the suit quicker than before. The problem is that Dick’s suit is pretty streamlined. Less armor for quicker movements. It doesn’t come off very easy.

The roar of another motorbike approaches, but Dick doesn’t pay much attention to it until it stops. There’s the clatter of a helmet hitting the ground, and then Jason’s voice, asking, “Woah, woah.  _Why_ are we helping Dickhead aggressively strip? And what’s with the burns?” even as he moves to help Dick and Bruce.

A dry sob rips itself from Dick’s throat as Bruce and Jason finally get him out of his suit, because even out of the suit his skin just straight up  _burns_.

“Help me,” Bruce barks at Jason as he crouches down to grip Dick’s arm. Jason snaps something that Dick doesn’t pay attention, but his little brother still grabs Dick’s other arm, and the two lift him and practically carry him to the infirmary.

Dick’s pretty sure he loses consciousness a few times, because all he remembers after that is yelling and flashes of different family members surrounding him.

When he finally opens his eyes again, fully awake this time, the burning sensation has been somewhat numbed. Not completely gone, but dulled enough that he’s not thinking through a frantic haze of pain anymore.

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice calls out, cutting through the silence of the infirmary. Dick’s eyelashes flutter—he’s exhausted—but he keeps his eyes on his dad. He’s no longer a blur anymore. Dick can see every detail of his face, and it’s relieving enough that tears prick at Dick’s eyes.

“Bruce,” he whispers. He doesn’t have enough of his voice for anything louder.

Bruce’s eyes search his face, looking for something, and Dick feels okay enough to send him a small smile.

“I’m okay,” Dick tells him quietly.

“You’re not,” Bruce says. He’s quiet, too.

Dick hums. “Better than before.  _A lot_  better.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that, but he does sigh slightly as he sits himself down in a chair by Dick’s bedside and grabs his son’s hand. Dick intertwines their fingers, and Bruce still says nothing. His eyes never leave Dick for more than a few seconds.

He looks older than he should for a man in his forties. He looks older than he had this  _morning_ , and Dick hates that tonight, he’s the one to age his dad. Another kid almost died. An occupational hazard, Dick might tease any other night. A joke that Bruce never laughs at.

Dick probably shouldn’t, either, honestly.

“You okay?” Dick wonders after a little while. “You seem kind of down.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches downward. Not a frown, but close. “You almost died.”

“Mmm,” Dick hums again. “I mean besides that. Stuck on a case.”

Bruce stares at him for a long moment, and then he sighs, giving in a lot quicker than Dick would have ever expected. “Not a case. Tim’s sick with the flu, I think. I’ve been worried.”

Dick blinks. “Tim’s sick?”

Bruce grunts.

“Does Alfred know?”

“Alfred’s with him now,” Bruce says with a sort of weary sigh. “And then you came home with gas burns. You got lucky.”

“Maybe,” Dick says. “Or maybe I was prepared enough to get myself out of a situation before it killed me. Just like a certain someone taught me.”

Bruce sighs again. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. You’re exhausted and you need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“Go to sleep, Dick.”

Dick glares Bruce down. “I will when you do.”

They stare at each other for almost a whole minute, but Bruce must be more tired and worried than Dick had thought, because Bruce gives in far too easily for someone who Dick has seen perch on the edge of a roof on a stakeout for literal hours without moving.

“Fine.” Bruce moves to get up, but Dick squeezes his hand, stopping him.

“I love you,” Dick whispers. “Thanks for being there tonight.”

Bruce squeezes back. “Good night, Dick. I’ll check on you in a few hours.”

Dick smiles, a little lopsided, but still enthusiastic. “Night, Bruce.”


End file.
